Frank and Jenny

1980 Sir Richard Burton Dame Freya Stark, Rajasthan India Greetings from the Indian sub--c, If you expect this letter to be particularly informative then it's hard Caerphilly old beans. India is a bit of everything and something of a madhouse. Delhi was Ok. In Kashmir the most elementary business transaction resembles GBH. You say A bar of soap please SHOPKEEPER "That will be 50 billion rupees and four goats". Me "How much???" SHOPKEEPER "Oh all right two rupees but I'm cutting my own throat". Amritsar was very agreeable. AGRA was a bit of a pit. They seem to specialise in handcraft made by people without handies. Particularly repugnant were little boxes decorated vaguely like the T Mahal. It was only by maintaining quite extraordinary fleetness of foot that we managed to avoid the unspeakable shame of owning one of the monstrosities. Where we are now is a much better place. Its all jolly interesting. The first thing you have to learn is how to deal with the touts and rickshaw--wallahs cum highway robbers. A simple "No thank you" is worse than useless. A voice midway between Major Denis Bludneck and Nosferatu seems most efficacious. Phrases like "Sod off" or "By Christ, I'll rip your lites out if you speak to me again you loathsome heap of guano" seem particularly good. The tone of this missive should not convey anything other than that we are having an exceeding jolly time. Everything here seems to happen at once, or not at all depending which way you look at it. The streets constantly throng with demented drivers-- bicycles, rickshaws, three wheel taxis, cars, lorries, buses, pedestrians, hand carts, bullock, cow and camel carts plus more than a few loose dogs, goats, cats, children etc. All are convinced they have the right of way and seem to navigate by Braille. Although accommodation is cheap you usually have to share rooms. Hotels tend to have lizards but these are clean, quiet and neighbourly. What's more they catch the bugs. In Kashmir on a houseboat, we became most amicable with the rats. I had a close encounter in the bog. One night the boat owner was showing the property to a prospective client. As the gentleman asked me about the place a horde of rodents could be heard taking vast gobs full from the foundations. Most of the ordinary people are charming and exceeding friendly, reserving an inexplicable fondness for the British. One old Sikh gentleman in Amritsar seemed to think that that we received only fair payment for centuries of oppression and exploitation. "But what did we ever give you?" I asked. He mulled this over and replied: "Trousers". The railways are absolutely spiffing. Once you master the technique of acquiring a ticket-- no mean feat-- you could live forever on the average station. Despite the fact that we are having a great time there are about 1,000 things we miss. As far as I am concerned 999 of those are beer so please quaff the odd gallon or two and think of us. Am taking millions of photos so prepare to be bored stupid when we return. Will write again soon. Give Fang and Meep an extra leaf or two from us. Lots of love Frank and Jenny.
	Laura in front of Fang's cage.
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Dec.--4(ish) 1980 Arnold Preet and Maud Featherstonehaugh Orissa(ish) India Greetings to all at number 3, yet another fun packed, super soaraway-- it gets rid of sores-- missive from Asia. Pausing briefly to 12 bore the mosquito blighters I am sorry to relate that I can't remember what I wrote in the last episode so please excuse repeated jokes etc. So far we have stayed in Delhi, Srinagar, Jammu, Amritsar, Agra, Jaipu, Udipur, Mount Abu, Bombay, Aurangabad, Khajeraho, Veranasi, Calcutta, Puri and Konorak which is quite a lot of staying, and quite a lot of going as well. Extraordinary touch of the mystic east in Varanasi. The man who owned the hotel had lived in Walfumstow for 17 years. A smashing chap but whenever asked to recommend a restaurant would reply "They do triffic fish n chips at the Winfa Chinky." Now Varanasi, there's a places ("Is there?" "Yes"). As you may or may not know or care Varanasi a.k.a. Benares a.k.a. the biggest open looney farm on t firma is at least 3,000 years old, situate on the river Ganges and considered the bees knees by the Hindu folk. You have to accept that all Indian cities are crowded and crossing the street more dangerous than suggesting an exposé on organised crime to the editor of the National Enquirer. In good old Benares this is coupled with the fact that every day is a festival, this adds numerous elements of risk to the ever present gorings by cows, tramplings from human hordes or annihilation from all manner of wheeled thing. Try running being set on by an elephant up the flag--pole and see who salutes it. I am firmly convinced that there is no thing more loathsome, more unspeakably appalling than the sound of an Indian brass band. Now the river, there's a thing-- you would not believe it so Ill tell you when we get home. Weddings-- of which there were many-- were exceedingly jolly to the on--looker. About 10 poor people are hired to walk along with four electric light tubes sticking out of their heads. These merry souls are followed by the electric generator on wheels which precedes half a dozen fruitcakes trying to play Chatenooga Choo Choo on drums! The groom follows, he always looks v. grim-- well who wouldn't with a golden Christmas Tree balanced on the head. Khajeraho and Konorak are remarkably big on the ancient temple front-- and jolly impressive they are too. Unfortunately some of the carvings that adorn these astonishing pieces of architecture are "erotic" and this is the angle that gets the big sell. As a consequence you need only turn over any stone and an oily little cove wriggles out with "special photographs". These take the form of photo booth size b/w pix of hunks of masonry resembling the backgrounds of News of the World snatch shots taken within court precincts or some over/ under exposed thing beamed back from Jupiter. There's some fellow called Prince Charles following us around just now-- sounds like a phoney name to me-- and if he catches up I shall steadfastly refuse to buy any snake skins, sandals, coral necklaces, made in Pilkington semi--precious stones, "Khajerah" couples that copulate at the touch of a button, real polymer handbags or statues of the 19 millionth incarnation of Boris Pasternak. That'll teach him. Don't let all this rubbish suggest were not having a good time-- we are. This is the formula for cashing a travellers cheque. (a) Enter bank depositing all weapons, as requested with the huge bloke with the shotgun. (b) find right counter, present cheque and passport, sign cheque, fill out form concerning home address, madness in family, contagious diseases (c) Clerk copies what you have written (d) Runner takes ledger to man who copies out what is written (e) runner takes ledger to third man who copies everything out and checks for errors. Usually they have worked out the dollar rate instead of pound so you start again after first clause in (b) (g) First man gives you a token (h) you get in queue. After a re--run of the Battle of Bosworth you get to the front where a man copies everything out, writes out a receipt, counts out the dough, takes token and releases you. On a good day this takes half an hour. One memorable day, or was it two, they worked by candlelight during a power cut. Hope all is well back at the ranch, buzz the old beasts the odd bit of greenery from us. Have a jolly Yule (well be in bloody Bangkok). Keep the home fs burning. What's all this about M. Foot? I smell a rat. Will write soonish. Love Frank & Jenny.
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December 17, 1980 Frank & Jenny, Calcutta, India. Good evening this is the news, No slight intended but whenever I commence one of these bulletins to the Brind household I can only ever think of the silly events. Hey ho. Because I can't remember what went in the last communiqué I'll work backwards. We are now in Calcutta awaiting our departure on the 17th for Bangkok or Krung Thep as it is sometimes called. Calcutta-- or the Big C--is not half as bad as John Wayne claimed. In fact its quite a jolly place and heaps better than Delhi or Bombay. A particularly good place to visit from Calcutta is London but failing that you can go to St Paul's Cathedral near the corner of Jawaharhal Nehru Road and Shakespeare Saran, you know it, just a bit up from Acharya Jagdish Chandra Base Road. Anyway this fine Indo--Gothic edifice is packed with memorials to dead Brits which are frequently couched in somewhat terse language. Something like "near this stone lies Brig Montgomery Ffitch--Gore Manifold, a brilliant and generous man viciously slain by filthy heathen scum". As the Church is now run-- and run exceedingly well-- by the afore mentioned FHS such wording is a mite embarrassing. Actually Runcieballs and the flowery hat brigade would swoon with horror and drop the cucumber sarnies if they saw St Paul's. Its liberally plastered with posters that do all but confirm the date and place for barricade manning and winter palace storming. In the grounds we win a bottle of Silverkrin Shampoo at the garden fete in aid of the Jacobite--Syrian Church-- yes, we thought that was a bit odd as well. I don't think I mentioned that our hotel in Benares was owned by a delightful chap who lived in Walthamstow for 17 years, in between fond recollections of E17 he was wont to discuss the pilgrims to the Holy river Ganges. "Bleedin ignrnt superstitious peasants" is one fond phrase that springs to mind and "a right load of bloody crooks round ere you've got to watch em all the time" yet another endearment. We are gradually learning the pitfalls to avoid in the countries to follow. Apparently the Malaysian Govt. has an unutterable dread, loathing nay bitter hatred of the Hippy-- having encountered quite a few in India I feel their attitude is a little too liberal. Anyway they arrange periodic raids on the sort of place these people infest. If they catch you they stamp the initial letters of "suspected hippy in transit" on your passport and you have 48 hours to exit the country. Latest calculations suggest that we will be spending Xmas in Pinang so picture me carving great slices off the birds nest soup, putting silver Thai bhat in the shark fin pudding etc. All tourists look alike; yesterday our waiter at lunch asked us if we were Japanese!!! I told him that we were most certainly not. He seemed most surprised. In Darjeeling-- a really magnificent place-- Jenn and I went for a ride on a mountain pony, this is a ludicrous form of transport and I caution you most strongly against equine transportation. In the next few weeks I shall be sending Chris a batch of interesting and amusing press cuttings. Do ask if you can have a butchers. Outside our windows there is some ghastly, monotonous drumming and wailing going on which is a bit odd because were staying at a Guest House run by the Salvation Army. One frequently hears coves bellowing "Allah Akbar" and such as well. What a country. Weve just discovered that from Bali you can sail to Komodo and go dragon stalking. Ive never stalked a dragon-- or worried a sheep for that matter-- but it sounds a jolly wheeze and we might give it a bash. Latest reports indicate that our ETA in Sydney is Feb 15. Gosh, almost forgot, deepest commiserations (is that right?) re new addition to the fold. Do you want a Goy or a Birl? Write to us post restant in Singapore with this an any other news. You only need another point 4 of a child to qualify as a genuine statistic. How's Laura? Does she prefer Bass or Youngs? Drink a few pints for us when you get the chance. This morning the entire Guest House was sprayed with DDT, Ive never been sprayed with DDT before. Its that kind of fascinating experience that makes foreign travel so interesting. A little man came round in the spraying frenzy gassed beds, bags, bog, floors, walls etc. with enough noxious gas to half kill we two. Oh well. Will write soon. Love to the beasts. Love Frank & Jenn.
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June 1981 You will please imagine me sitting on a reserved seat in a first class compartment of a British Rail train on its way to Blackpool. The train rocks from side to side which explains my spidery style. No! No! The plastic beaker full of Scotch and American has nothing to do with it--you're imagining too many details. It is, I suppose, a kind of luxury to be travelling across England in a British Rail train on a Summer's afternoon. John Arlott has written an article in today's Guardian about the summer of 1948 in which he describes how "Morris, one of the nicest men ever to set foot on a cricket field made 138... in the next match against Leicestershire, Bradman was bowled for a mere 83 by a young seam bowler from the Lord's staff named Etherington. It was his first wicket in the first class game and he should cherish it, for he took only two more before illness ended his county career." That is England. [A man in a baggy blue suit just came by and said "say yer tecuts pleys" in a ringing, chanting sort of way.] Yet this England is not what it was, perhaps. This summer has been so ghastly that the popular newspapers have taken to giving away money instead of performing their proper function of informing the public that they had just experienced "a scorcher". All the popular newspapers now use their front pages to reveal how much money they intend to give away that day. Whatever happened to the Thomsons and Beaverbrooks who used to give the money to their journalists? Anyway back to the plot. I am on a train going to Blackpool for Building Trades Journal. I have worked for this magazine for some two years now. So I got the Blackpool trip while my boss is in Atlanta, Georgia. We have just passed Bletchley and I think that it is about time I told you that my son Arthur is now nearly a month old and I am glad to be able to tell you that he looks a good deal less like Winston Churchill than he did when he was born. England also appears to be brightening up as I proceed northwards. Arthur weighed 8 pounds 2 ounces and was born on Wednesday May 20 to our great relief as he had been due since April 30. See easier.. I am also very likely to be elected a councillor in May 1982 in Waltham Forest. I attended a strange interview at a near derelict house opposite the old Connaught Hospital in Walthamstow and was immediately placed on the A list of candidates. That means they will try to find somewhere relatively safe for me to sit. I just passed a barge on the grand union canal. The slum, as I have dubbed 3 St Heliers Rd, continues to deteriorate. Saturday , a brilliant blue sun bright day--one of only two so far this year--I spent perched on 1987 of a ladder at roof height. What I was doing was replacing the leaking guttering on the back extension. The major difficulty was that it was impossible to put up a ladder to our roof from our garden. The foot of the ladder had to rest in the garden opposite. This meant jumping over a 7 feet high wall to collect or dump anything--which was not helped by the fact that I stabbed my hand at an early stage of the proceedings with a carpet knife. Watford Gap coming up. The last time I saw Chris Hill he showed me a letter from you which said some sacrilegious (from an Australian standpoint) things about the Sydney Opera House. Rugby. That is we are s1987ped in Rugby Station. Santus uncle joe's mint balls keep you all aglow: of course we're in Wigan. Preston.

It seems very unlikely that the above missive was actually sent. It petered out.

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July 4, 1981

3 St Heliers Road,
Leyton,
London E10 6BH

Dear Frank and Jenny,

It must be summer because the race rioting season is well under way. West Indian origin in Brixton a few weeks ago. Indian origin in Southall last night. Australian origin in Earls Court within the next few days. It's bound to happen.

Besides looking at the date I typed on this here letter I discover it's American Independence Day. This, of course, is a load of nonsense. Britain has yet to obtain independence from America. But I will dutifully quaff a few beers tonight to celebrate the event... .any port in a storm.

The weather in. pomme land has been utterly ghastly. America's weather controlling programme based at the St Helens Volcano is proving to be more successful than anyone expected. My own fear is that Reagan's attempt to destroy Russian agriculture will result in a second (or third) Ice Age. Presumably, Reagan has decided to put extra funds to scientific research on the project and this is the reason for Mickey Rooney's court battle to win royalties (perhaps they call them republicanties in America?) for screen actors whose pre--1960 films are shown on TV. Reagan's early work, including a film he made with a chimp, is now extremely popular and no doubt the president will make sufficient funds from this free enterprise gambit to save the-- world.

Still on this subject a British scientist, whose name I can't remember at the moment, has suggested that the way to prevent an Ice Age is to build huge floating heating factories which warm millions of gallons of ocean a second, then pump the water to Briny depths. I suppose the theory is that the water would then rise and return to the pumping station like a giant Tibetan prayer wheel. God would see things were good and send a rainbow to prevent the Ice Age. Maybe I'm missing the point.

My own contribution to the debate has been to suggest that Sir Keith Joseph be nationalised. This has many attractions, not the least of which is that Sir Keith has virtually bottomless supplies of hot air. This can surely be tapped to benefit the nation.

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December 15, 1981. Frank and Jenny 8/12 Onslow Avenue Elizabeth Bay NSW 2011 MERRY AND A HAPPY THINGY Dear Jo, Clare and a cast a thousands, thought wed better buzz off this communication for the festered season. Behold the illustration on the front, recalling the myth of the three wize Australians. An artists impression had to be used because the actual TWAs have not been built yet. You will, of course, remember the touching story of the trio (Grouch , Omo and Joylene) who saw a shining tube of Fosters (some authorities allege it was Swan lager) bathing the sky with bubbles. They followed it and it brought them to a land of jumbucks, opera houses and goolagongs where foreheads were outlawed and pomme de terre meant "scum of the earth". But enough of this gay tittle--tattle. This is the season of Good Will, or Bonser Bruce as he's known out where. We will be trying to stay here longer than expected (as you probably know by now) and will come back some time or other. Details will be contained in other Yule communications which we hope will come your way-- actually they shouldn't come your way they should come G Skeggs, K Eley, C Hills way unless the GPO is even more of an elevated rooster than it was when I was unemployed there. Somewhere in the above you will have realised that there is not a lot of news. Yarns concerning foreign parts seem much more entertaining when wrapped around several pints and in an ongoing situation or interface re the yarnor and the yarnee. Preposterous as it may seem we miss the old crowd very much indeed and anticipate more of same as we celebrate the triumph of the infertile over the fertile. Drop us a line if you can, and if you can't send us a letter. It wont be long before I'm borrowing money from you again. Love Frank & Jenn
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September 12. 1984. 3 St Helier's Road, Leyton, London ElO 6BH Friends, Frank Gauntlett, the man who used to be a legend in his own lunchtime, arrives from the land of the Lotus eaters (Aus) and tells us he doesn't take lunchtime anymore. It' s very hard to believe. Well, I'm going to start a course today which will eventually lead to me becoming a diploma coal merchant so I suppose on a day like that I should believe anything. But as an experience I must say it ranks alongside the morning I switched on breakfast tv (we have it over here now) and saw a man feeding cold mock kangaroo soup to a skink, a kind of stump tailed lizard. The skink appeared to enjoy it and I suppose I should too. I guess you're only here for a short while but if you get time perhaps you might like to come over and have lunch with us one Saturday or Sunday. You could watch anyway? Alternatively, why not come to Whipsnade with us? We go quite often. You could wander amongst the wallabies. See you soon. Jo
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December 29, 1986. 3 St Helier's Road, Leyton, London E10 6BH Dear Frank & Jenny, I don't even know if I've sent this to the correct address. Still perhaps you'll get it some time in 1987. Chris Hill came round and gave us a lampshade and two small frames for Christmas. Other than Chris I don't think we see many folk that you know. Except I did see Dee round at Lorna's place the other day. She was looking well------appears to have blossomed. But she's still subject to disasters. She's just had her purse picked in Oxford St and lost a week's wages, £100. Still there's no need to send a food parcel. She's just got a tax rebate. Another person I bump into fairly regularly is Paddy Joyce. Being a councillor now we quite often prop up the council bar together. But our relationship has changed some what (as you might imagine). Paddy keeps on at me about getting the Labour group (we run the council) to expand the press office. You can imagine my enthusiasm for that idea. Paddy, himself, is slimmer than I remember But maybe that's just 'cause I'm a lot fatter than I was and he just seems slim by comparison. Anyway, if you do come to Europe some time let us know. The kids are relatively civilised now (Arthur's five and Laura's seven). You're also welcome to ring up in the middle of the night if you wish------we have an answer phone now. Yours Laura Jo & Clare Arthur
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April 2, 1987. 3 St Helier's Road, Leyton, London E10 6BH Phone 556 8928 (home) 261 1604 (work) Dear Frank & Jenny, According to the papers yesterday the arms of the Venus de Milo have been discovered and Fox Talbot was not the first person to discover photography------that honour goes to a previously obscure Japanese person who ' took the first photo in about 1782. Yes it was April Fools Day. I turned to the Murdoch press (yes the Times dispute is over so I'm allowed to read Bernard Levin again!) and what did I find but a story about plastic being magnetic, well, the Times reckons that some unnamed Russian scientists have discovered that some types of plastic are magnetic. The strange thing about the story is that it appeared to be true. It's so hard to tell with the Murdoch press. In America I saw a copy of the Sun, not Murdoch's British Sun but an American newspaper of the same name. The front page was just covered in headlines. .There were no photos------and I don't blame them on that point since I reckon some of their stories would have been pretty hard to illustrate------and no text. One headline was about a man who was struck by lightning and then had an arm grow (it didn't say if it was a third arm or a replacement for one he had previously lost). Another told the story of a three month old baby who was pregnant. The remaining stories were about equally believable. Yet strangely the American press, the real American press, was not half bad. The newspapers are mostly city based and obviously totally obsessed with the city they happen to be located in. But given that, they were serious and did a good job of telling people what was going on. The absence of the vast number of rules and regulations we have about what you can and can not print does not seem to have made them reach for the gutter. The St Louis Post Despatch was actually backing a purchase tax rise in a referendum due to be held in that city shortly after I left. It was also pouring massive scorn on the antics of the only mildly racist white right wing. I quite liked America. Mind you it is the sort of place where one sticks to the affluent areas and keeps well clear of the other places. By the way, I presume you knew I was going to America? Did you get my letter? We are all well. Arthur, our son who you have never seen, is going to be six soon. That must mean that you left about six years ago. Laura, our eldest, is 7 but I think you saw her before you left. She has changed a bit, mind. Clare now has a job, as I'm sure you must have seen from one of my earlier missives. I'm a councillor and getting pretty fed up with the local council. We have just put the rates up 62% and I was not exactly in favour of doing so----in fact I fought it tooth and nail. I lost and I think the Labour Party is going to lose the next election because there are too many people in the party who just like playing politics and don't actually want to do anything. Obtaining power would mean they would have to compromise and they would do anything rather than compromise their principles. Still maybe the Liberals and the Social Democrats will win the election. If you can believe the opinion polls, they might. I don't much like the Libs and friends but I reckon that they could be less destructive than the Tories. By the way did I tell you that John Williams, who is a Waltham Forest Councillor, is prospective parliamentary candidate for Chingford. Of course, Chingford is Norman Tebbit's seat and under ordinary conditions the Liberals would have no chance there (do you remember they used to put Henry up as a candidate) but the situation is so volatile now and Norman Tebbit has been making such an arse of himself lately (he's chairman of the Tories and all the people who've had that kind of job lately have been making fools of themselves for some reason) you never know it could be John Williams MP. Mind you I wouldn't bet on it if I were you. I've had the same job for the last four years and if I can hold onto it I'm likely to be there for the next three years at least------it's not easy to find jobs at editor level (magazines) when you're a Labour councillor! Still we have a fairly good lifestyle now. We can look a bill in the eye without taking out a second mortgage------in fact Clare has been known to pay some bills before the red ones come in! Now that's wealth for you. It's spring over here, at least according to the calendar and to be fair we have had some decent weather lately. It was quite sunny today. The clocks have gone back so officially it is British Summer Time. The Government is massaging the unemployment figures down. Those who are in work have never had it so good. There are plenty of people in the streets begging, but I saw that in the States as well. Maybe it's the same in Aus? It's fairly late now so I think I shall go and watch the box for a while. Oh, hang on though, I must just crow about this. I went for a ride on the footplate of the Flying Scotsman today, you know the steam engine that won all the high speed records half a century ago. The Flying Scotsman used to pass near where I lived when I was about five and my dad used to take me to see it sometimes so it was quite an event to stand and watch the boiler being stoked. See you sometime. Jo and Clare
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May 23, 1987. 3 St Helier's Road, Leyton, London E10 6BH Dear Frank & Jenny, I'm writing mostly because I met Scarlett McGwire the other day and she mentioned Jenny. In fact she said she'd gone to the same university as Jenny. I didn't even know you went to university Jenny------or maybe I did and I forgot. Anyhow the circumstances of my meeting Scarlett were somewhat unusual. In fact she, interviewed me in front of the cameras. Admittedly they were cameras owned by the London Borough of Waltham Forest but it was still quite an experience. The council had decided to run a media training course for councillors and naturally I put my name down------though I didn't think they would be able to teach me too much. In fact about half the day was spent mucking about in a mock up tv studio and I did learn an awful lot about tv. Scarlett, by the way, is a damn good tv interviewer though a somewhat prickly character. She treated me as if I was a cross between Uncle Sam and Atilla the Hun but I guess I was messing about a bit. The other half of the course was run by Francis Beckett, who used to be a president of the NUJ some years back. He asked us to write a press release so I wrote it out in shorthand and then transcribed it. "How do you know I don't read shorthand," said the man who trained as an NUS press officer (I mean National Union of Students not National Union of Seaman). Paddy Joyce was there looking just like he did ten years ago. Age has not wearied him and ceaseless toil has not ground him down. Paddy's getting a new department though it's an open question who is going to be the boss. The council has been embroiled in public controversy lately. In fact, according to Norman Tebbit who is now chairman of the Conservative Party and the man who runs their campaign (well with a few others), Waltham Forest is firmly in the loony left category. He pilloried us in a party political broadcast on tv a couple of weeks before the election. The reason: we put the rates up 62% and as a result 5,000 people demonstrated outside the town hall during one council meeting and 6,000 during the next. There have been posters up in many of the shops, tonnes of hate mail to councillors, anonymous phone calls-- some very indecent or threatening------Neil Gerrard has had his house fire bombed (only the door was damaged), a hearse arrived to take Vi Smith's body away which annoyed her since she is still using it, a brick went through one councillor's front door window, etc etc. We have not suffered much but my name and address did go up along with all the other councillors on posters inviting angry ratepayers to let us know what they thought of us. We put up a smoke alarm in the hall just in case. We are expecting an invitation to go to the High Court any day now. The ratepayers action group sent a solicitor's letter round threatening that we would be personally surcharged. Arthur celebrated his sixth birthday last week. Laura, our eldest, is seven. But you remember Laura she was born before you left. She has a hamster which spends all its waking hours (the night) running inside a creaking wheel. It makes the most eerie noise but it doesn't disturb her sleep and seems to have been a good influence on her. The election is currently in full swing. Labour is doing reasonably well in the opinion polls (the last one was Tories 41%, Labour 33% which sounds ghastly but is a lot better than some lately) and is running a good campaign. But the Tories are so far in front in terms of the seats they hold (they have about 400 while Labour has about 200) that the chances of Labour winning the election are pretty remote. It is a lot easier for a sitting MP, even a dodo, to hold on to a seat than it is for someone to come along and capture it. So it looks like we are going to have another four years of Thatcher, which is the best reason for living in Australia that I can think of. Still judging from Doug's last letter you have a few loony politicians in Aus as well!
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June 1, 1987. 3 St Helier's Road, Leyton, London E10 6BH "IT WAS 20 years ago today that Sergeant Pepper taught the band to play," has been the intro on almost every documentary on radio for something like the last three weeks but it was in fact 20 years ago today that the Sergeant Pepper album came out (mono version). I heard Paul McCartney on the radio today who said that when all the fuss about the anniversary started a few months back he got out a tape and listened to the old record and he said "I liked it". I think he's trying to follow John Lennon's comment "I've never been a knocked out Beatles fan". Paul McCartney, by the way, is talking about going back on the road again. But the really big news is that the pubs are now open until ll p.m. Monday to Thursday which probably means the death of the Prince of Wales. It also gives you a new insight into Redbridge pubs. The other day a friend and myself went to the Eagle down by Eagle Pond (you know near Snaresbrook Crown Court) and the pub shut at 10.30p.m.. They seemed such a backward primitive lot. The trend is now definitely towards more liberal licensing laws. If you go and have a meal in some of the London restaurants you can now drink until pub opening time. The restaurants are allowed to serve drink to people who have had a meal all afternoon. Pretty soon there won't be a pub left in London. They'll all be restaurants unless the licensing laws are liberalised to allow the pubs to open all afternoon as well. Then some of the cafes that serve breakfast will want to serve drinks all morning. The licensing laws are on their way out. Regrettably the Tories don't seem to be going out with them though there is some slim chance that they may lose an awful lot of seats perhaps enough to cause the political demise of Thatcher. But it seems pretty likely that they will still have some sort of majority. In a pub the other day I bumped into a bloke called Phil Mellows who said he used to know you. I think he worked on one of the Newham papers years ago but now he works for the Morning Advertiser. In fact we didn't just bump into each other. We were covering the CAMRA pub awards presentation which is a good piss up in anybody's language. He said he remembered me but I'm damned if I remembered him. See you sometime. Jo
July 5, 1987. 3 St Helier's Road, Leyton E10 6BH Dear Frank & Jenny, Aidan White has become general secretary of the International Federation of Journalists. I bet you didn't expect to hear that name again. The ex Stratford Express sub (when he wasn't striking) beat former general secretary of the Australian Journalists' Association (whatever that might be) Neil Swancott. I haven't seen Aidan for two or three years but the last I heard he'd quit the SWP and joined the Labour Party. Talking of the Labour Party, which I do quite a lot I'm afraid, I'm now chairman of the Planning Committee at Waltham Forest Council. I only got the job because I happened to be in Torquay (happy Torquay, Torquay, happy talk. Talk about things you like to do. . . ) when the Labour Group met. If I'd been there I'm sure I would have said something stupid and ensured that I didn't get the job. London is warm and sunny at present and has been for about six days but June was generally a washout. The pubs are all crowded in the evenings but there is a definite feeling of uncertainty about. It is hard to explain what is meant by "a feeling of uncertainty" but perhaps you would understand if I said that today patriotism is like an accusation made against someone for not being hard working enough. The type of people who used to glory in being patriotic now merely use patriotism (or the lack of it) as a slur against the rest of us. Perhaps I can't explain. Perhaps I'm just a whinging pom. Anyway people have begun to talk about going to Australia again. I know a couple of journalists called David and Nicola Cusworth who want to move out. They're thinking of taking a holiday in Oz before settling Have you any suggestions---- apart from don't? Did you ever go to the Sun in Lambs Conduit St? Anyway the Sun has an enormous range of beer but I went there a few days ago and would you believe there was a stripagram girl performing in one corner. I couldn't see much of what was going on because of the crowd around her. In any case we were waiting for our beer (which was served in plastic cups). Such things did not happen in the days when CAMRA was first formed. Talking of which the Solid Fuel Advisory Service now sponsors the Good Beer Guide so I get to go to their press conference. And yes CAMRA can organise a piss up in a brewery---- or more usually a rather nice pub! And on the same theme have you heard that the pubs are to be allowed to open non s1987 from 11 a. m. to 11 p. m. every day except Sundays! The newspaper scene gets grimmer all the time. The new left wing Sunday (News on Sunday) appears to be on the point of closing and one of the other new launches, the Social Democratic paper called Today has been bought by Murdoch. He now owns The Sun, News of the World, The Times & The Sunday Times as well as Toady as the paper is now being called in view of the fact that given Murdoch's line in every other British paper the new Today is bound to lose its Social Democrat convictions and start toadying to the Government. In Australia, I understand, Murdoch supports the Labour Government. I can't imagine why. Perhaps since he lost his Oz nationality he feels vulnerable over there? Anyway I continue to work and play a fairly minor rote in the union but in truth my main occupation is working for the council and all these funny bodies that were set up when the GLC was abolished. Chris Hill came by quite recently and seems to be prosperous --------can you believe that? He now has a part time job working for the youth service and also two quite well paid jobs working as a piano player in a couple of London pubs. The kids get older, we're still in debt, we still drink too much. What else is there to say? I must have. told you, that John Williams is a Waltham Forest Councillor now. In fact we have about ten Alliance councillors in Waltham Forest and John even stood as parliamentary candidate against Norman Tebbit in Chingford. He lost by a mile, of course, but so did most of the Liberal who stood this time. It was not a good year for them. Next month we're going on holiday to Guernsey so I will send you a postcard. Clare is well and so are the kids. In fact at the moment they're out in the garden playing in the paddling pool. Anyway drop us a line some time. See you. Jo
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July 16, 1987 16--07 Dear Jo, Clare and multitude, yes it's the Australian connection celebrating the fifth--ish anniversary of its last letter (busy, busy, busy) by writing yet another missive. Don't be greedy-- please share this with any person aged enough to remember (or have the slightest interest in) us. Well, here I am in the House of Pain with Dr Rupert Moreau conducting his vile experiments turning human beings into animals. Once we crack that we're going for the big one-- devolving animals into journalists. Your letter was received with great pleasure and it is comforting to know that the UK ship of state is still up Excrement Creek without propulsion. Like you good selves we have just endured a general election and Mr Robert James Lee Hawke and his 'Labor' Party have been returned for a recording breaking third season at the Kanberra Komedy Klub. Mr Hawke (rumour has it that he glows in the dark) is an interesting phenomenon. A Rhodes scholar, he still, I believe, holds the world record for downing a pint. Much of his early career was spent fornicating and drinking. It is alleged that he has given up both activities to concentrate on politics. After many years as head of the ACTU (a sort of TUC) Bob went into politics, booted Bill Haden (one of the better people) out of the Labor leadership and swept into power on a wave of crinkly blue/ grey hair, Jingoism and stolen Tory policies. By stealing these policies, the political right, called the Liberal Party because they're not in the least bit liberal-- has been thoroughly rooted. Unable to move to the left-- because brain transplants are not technically feasible-- and having trouble moving to the right for fear of falling off the edge, these pathetic souls have taken to internecine strife as to the manner born. Above the hudder--mugger voices of sanity are at time raised. But then this might be wishful thinking. We heard about Aidan's job and he, Kate and child may be coming out again next year. The person he defeated, Neil Swancot, -- or Swinecot as I tend to call him-- was a big wig in the Australian Journalists Association (the NUJ without the moral fibre, ha! ha!). For reasons that I am hard pressed to fine I never felt Swincot could be trusted further than Mother Theresa could throw Walthamstow Town Hall. We are all being whipped into a rather spurious frenzy because next year is Australia's Bicentennial celebrations, as some dry wits would have it, 200 years of Aboriginal survival. This threatens to be one of the more disgraceful orgies since the Golden Age of Calligula. Vast sums of public money are to be squandered on tasteless, puerile and tedious activities to encourage us to squander even more money to benefit doner kebab salesmen, hotel owners, Nazi beer barons and the purveyors of appalling Aussie tat made in Korea. A vast influx of septic tourists (septic tank! Yank) fearful of being zapped by tasteful terrorists in Europe is expected to wander about the place making it look untidy. While their wretched tourist dollars are welcome (I admit this grudgingly) I feel it would be much tidier if they just sent a cheque. To encourage this form of tourism and appeal to the fuckwitted Yuppie fraternity---- I shall establish Improbable Tours Limited. For a vast fee, clients will receive five T--shirts bearing such legends as "I climbed Ayres Rock", "I heart New York" "The Paradise that is Manchester", "Moscow is great mate", "Delhi 4 me" plus a selection of international car stickers, used airline tickets, blurred snapshots of the Taj Mahal and Great Barrier Reef and cheep trinkets. A selection of friends will be sent postcards from various locations during the alleged holiday. Meanwhile the Yuppies can stay under a sun lamp in a caravan on Canvey Island and save up for a decency transplant and cosmetic IQ lift. My Bicentennial thoughts are a bit grim. For sanity's sake I hope some decent individuals provide ways and means to escape its tacky tentacles. All this rather negative, cynical, world weary stuff masks the simple truth that things are trundling along in much the same as they ever have-- periodic explosions of alcohol consumption, the endless stream of copy to lay out and sub ("flush twice, it's a long way to the editor's desk," the bog wall suggests) etc. Both Jenny and I are rather over tired of late and relishing the prospect of four weeks off in Oct. We have no idea what we are going to do as long as we do it somewhere else. It goes without saying that work is vile, but I continue to enjoy the theatre reviews which, while not being conducive to a good night's kip, make up for some of the misery during the day. There's a fair chance that we will roam north during the hols and visit D. Kennedy and clan in Queensland. Ah Queensland! As they say in the tv ads! "Beautiful one day, paradise the next." Now there's an interesting spot and I commend it to your enquiring minds. Queensland is run by a raving, geriatric loony called Sit Johannes Bjelke--Petersen (honest) and has been for about ten million years. But as Herbert Lom observed in one of the Pink Panther movies! "Madness doesn't preclude achievement." Sir Joh-- and his pumpkin scone baking moron of a wife Senator Flo-- believe that QLD is not really a part of Australia and that its institutionalised corruption , cruelty, bone--headed stupidity and down right nastiness must be protected at all costs from the scourge of socialism, homosexuality, honesty, other criminals, birth control and the general concept of equity. It's a great shame, because Queensland is a physically beautiful place where every prospect pleases.. Joh-- who along with the CIA-- was a leading figure in the downfall of the Whitlam government, managed almost single--handedly, to win our recent election for the Labor Party. First up he launched the Joh for PM campaign on a platform of flat tax and generally fucking over the weak. The initial problem with this scheme, lavishly funded by mad mining magnates and brutish property developers, was that Joh's state premiership derives from his election as a senator and the Prime Minister must be drawn from the House of Representatives. Undaunted by these minor constitutional problems the old wretch started to abused his National Party colleagues and, eventually, caused a total split in the National/ Liberal Party coalition which submerges relatively minor differences of approach in order to split the spoils of power at a later date when the fiends from the left have been vanquished. Having poured enormously damaging scorn on his former pals the bastard realised that he hadn't a snowball's chance in hell of getting anywhere and pulled out leaving all his mates with a public standing on a par with a bucketful of rats arseholes. My how we laughed! One of the agreeable things about Australia is the almost universal contempt for politicians. Some of our more loathsome businessmen, however, are very keen to make loathsome businessmen swashbuckling national hero figures. Unfortunately these people are sufficiently rich to be enjoying some success in this disgraceful campaign. A group of friends contemplate establishing a polite terrorist group-- urbane guerrillas if you like-- to handle certain persons with extreme prejudice, profoundly rearrange certain architectural aberrations, improve arts funding and generally raise the level of debate about the state of the world. With your co--operation this noble cause could transcend international boundaries. Would love a letter or news from or of Paddy, Chris, George, Keith Eley. By the way, you may remember Alan Jones from the Ping--Pong Palace. He and his wife spent a few days with us last month during which we got very pissed and had a wonderful time. Alan is living down in Melbourne, generally having a jolly time and would doubtless like to be remembered fondly to all. I suppose this is a rather impersonal letter in some ways but then news of Shane's piles, Waynes' new surf--board of Bruce's doomed relationship with the fishmonger would have little meaning-- hey ho! Well, I think I have maundered on enough and I dare say you have important signatures to forge, Clare probably has books to cook and the children will have to fence the day's bag of wipes, pocket watches and purses. Should you-- or any of the same-- ever fancy a trip to the colonies we'll keep a welcome in the billabong, slaughter the fatted roo and generally offer a jovial swagperson--type greeting. Of course, we would not hesitate to rip the scab off a few ice cold tubes (I do hope you realise that no--one actually uses ludicrous expressions like that.) Given that everyone has got to be somewhere, this is not a bad place to be. Convey fondest Rs to all and sundry. Will write in five years time All our love Frank & Jenny
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December 22, 1996. Jonathan Brind, 3 St Helier's Road, London E10 6BH 0181 556 8928 Fax 0181 925 9579 E--mail 100575.440@CompuServe.com Dear Frank & Jenny,How's things? Up this way everything's going really well. I have a good job I enjoy doing, I drive a two litre Vauxhall Vectra (a real reps car if there ever was one), we've almost finished paying for the house, we can pay the bills (almost), Laura got nine GCSE (two As, six Bs and 1 C) and is now doing her A levels (science subjects) at the college in Debden, we go down the pub most Fridays and Saturdays, etc. etc. etc. Middle class bliss really! And yet beneath all this I'm sure somebody is about to come along and stuff the whole thing up. Now that's English paranoia for you.
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From: "Frank Alan Gauntlett" Date: 11 September 2006 01:06:49 BDT To: "Jonathan Brind" Subject: Re: Chris Hill It sounds more like the Wild West than the Mild East End-- it always was such a law abiding place. At least Chris is OK. Give him my best when next you meet -- and belated birthday things. If one takes clues from the cops on TV, it would seem impossible to commit a street crime in London because, at least according to The Bill, just about every square inch of the city is covered by closed circuit TV. Can this be true? Can't say that I've really noticed but then I haven't been looking. My only encounter with such "security" was extremely oblique and some years ago. I was at Central Station waiting for a bloke on a train and recalled a news story a few days early about Central being a favoured stalking ground of paedophiles and other low life. Then it dawned on me that there was every chance some bod was checking me out on a screen to see if I looked like a said low life which, let's face it, is possible. I became distinctly uncomfortable and not a bit shitty about the possibility of my pervert quotient being weighed up by an unknown oik and went off for a nervous walk before some shocking injustice was perpetrated. It's difficult to judge the state of crime in the state of NSW largely because, stoked by putrid shock jocks and media bilge, our useless politicians have turned this into a"hot" issue and engage in constant bickering about who is TOUGHER ON CRIME. The latest wheeze being floated is, in certain cases, the abolition of double jeopardy. While my initial hostility to that idea has waned somewhat I still find the prospect alarming. The great Aussie tradition of despising politicians and being willing to stump up billions to keep the bastards corralled in Canberra, even local institutions,is taking serious knocks. On the domestic front we had Keith and family to stay for a few days. Absolute hoot. I was a bit nervous having got it into my head that we would be spending 24 hours a day in seedy dives getting ratted. None of it. We certainly had a few drinks but the whole thing was terrific fun. As for the films, well I'm actually seeing one of the executive producers of the soccer flick today to see how things are going on the dough front. I keep getting vague hints that all is going well but little that is concrete and nothing that is cash. Is it going to happen? Unfortunately only time will tell. The seriously unexpected development is a young -- apparently very trendy -- producer wants to make a flick based on my play of The Time Machine. I'm a bit baffled that anyone would bother but... what the hey! Much needs to be worked out. The bloody Time Machine just won't stay down and there's actually a very nice actor/director woman called Suzie Lindeman who, this very week,is talking to some London producer about doing the play in London next year with me mate Mark in the lead. Very early days yet but what a riot that could be! The book seems to be going OK and I've had a couple of grand in checks. Not quite Dan Brown but everyone seems to be pretty happy and I never thought I'd make a sou out of the the bloody thing. Needless to say, not everything is smooth running and I've had a huge row with a wannabe producer who, frankly, has had some kind of breakdown and is trying to diddle me out of a year's work. Mad he may be, but a sad, sick, spiteful little bastard he definitely is and I'm actually reduced to talking to lawyers about it. Pain in the arse! Jenny soldiers on valiantly and the kids are bobbing around doing just the sort of tripe you'd expect teenagers to do. Actually they're great kids and JP, now 16, constantly delights and amazes me by being so much smarter than I was at his age. Kate is actually more of a handful but, most of the time, very cute and hard to stay angry with. We're talking about the whole mob of us coming over at about this time next year. It's all dependent on money, of course, but both Jenny and I are feeling pretty itchy footed. More information will come on this. I'm going to sod off now. Have you given any more thought to Islands? I must say I haven't all that much although I've listened to the CDs a few more times. Let me know your thoughts because, if I do have to chisel away at it, now is not a bad time. I'm off. Talk soon. Frank ---------- Original Message ---------- From: Jonathan Brind To: Frank Alan Gauntlett Sent: Saturday, September 09, 2006 6:40 PM Subject: Chris Hill It was Chris Hill's birthday on Thursday (he was 66) and I met up with him at a pub in Wood Street we tend to frequent. Afterwards he went home via a supermarket buying some apple pastries and got to within about a hundred yards of his flat when he was s1987ped by two young men. They pointed at his bum bag (he uses it as a purse or wallet) and insisted he do something. However, he couldn't understand what they were saying (they didn't appear to speak English). Realising that he was being robbed he thought quickly, reached for a plastic bag out of his commodious brief case and rustled it. This frightened the would be thieves away, who ran off. Chris immediately went home and phoned the police who seem to have sent a car round a couple of hours later (or at least that's what they said when they phoned him the following morning). Another friend of mine woke in the middle of the night, convinced that his son had returned drunk and was making too much noise. He got up and went downstairs to meet a burglar. The burglar ran off with a lap1987 and some other small items. But it was scary. My friend lives in the posh part of South Woodford. According to the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police (speaking on the radio the other day) there is now so little crime in London that you would be safe to leave your doors open in Haringey, a place much colonised by Yuppies and professional types but also containing some sink estates of the type we used to have race riots on in the bad old days of Thatcher. Anyway how are yo? How's Jenny and the kids? How are you getting on with your films and books? I'd love to hear from you. Best wishes, Jo
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From: "Frank Alan Gauntlett" Date: 23 November 2006 18:08:22 GMT To: "Jo Brind" Subject: G'DAY SPORT

Eh up lad!

sorry I've been off the air for such a while, in part I'm blaming you and Bernard Shaw. To tell the truth it's only a very small part but if I don't blame someone else I'll have to cop the rap myself.

"Why blame'st thou blameless me?" you cry indignantly.

Well, it goes something like this...

Inspired by the Island Follies I started chipping away at the text and thinking serious thoughts -- how could it be done, why should it be done, should it be done? etc. There are drawers full of stuff just gathering silverfish. If the world's largest recyling business -- viz Hollywood -- can do it, why can't I?

The answer to that is pretty obvious (money and utterly ruthless bastards) but that didn't occur at the time. The question then was how?

The BBC came to the rescue with the issue of a glorious compendium called something like The Bernard Shaw Birthday Box -- 10 plays, mainly broadcast during the 70s and 80s of the old bugger's more popular stuff. I think I'm the only mug in Australia to have actually shelled out hard cash for the thing but am loving every bit -- not least the now rare pleasure of watching studio--based plays with terrific people in them.

Did they s1987 making such things because people don't want them or because greedy shits like big budgets and swanning around feeling important?

So I did a lot more chipping away at a lot more texts and, lo and behold, the young lady EP from the soccer fillum turns up, pissed off with waiting for the money to materialise and looking for something to do. She now has quite a lot to do.

Look, I'm not all that optimistic but it passes the bloody time.

The big(ish) news is that it looks v. likely I shall be coming over to London for a couple of weeks in January -- much as I did last year.

The plan was for us all to come over in September but this has been cocked up mainly by JP getting all the dates of his HSC (sort of A--levels) wrong. So there's no way we can do Sept and probably not Oct. The pressing biz is really with the old mum and dad. Dad's not been too great again and it can't be much of a laugh for mum. Under the circs I completely bottled delivering undiluted crap news and had to come up with something to sweeten the pill. Not that I consider myself all that sweet but it does seem to have cheered the old loves up a bit.

'Kin January! I shall freeze my furking nuts off!

Anyway, when I've got a bit more info I'll let you know. What's the warmest pub in Waltham Forest?

Beyond that there's not much news.

JP, alias Sexy Psycho Man, has now got his funky axe and spends most of his time at home lurking in his cell making a horrible noise, reading comics, playing putrid music and computer games and ignoring all studies. Not much changes in the world really.

Kate has become very teenaged. I can do no wrong but Jenn, for no obvious reason, has become evil incarnate. Kate swings from sweet little girl to a sort of 14--going--on--35 hard nut. We keep hoping it's a phase.

Jenny grinds on at work which seems a bit up and down lately, but mostly up thank God. They've got some new people in the place who seem OK and certainly better than the arseholes they replaced.

Nothing much happens with me. Daft plans float about, I waste a bit of time on 'em and then they fuck off. The only time I'm not being ignored is when I'm being ripped off.

Still there are a couple of plans afloat -- including the slender chance of a play in London next year. It's a solo thing starring a mate of mine called Mark Lee (he's best known for a flick called Galipolli in which he starred with none other than Piss--head Mel Gibson) and is basically just an adaptation of HG Wells' The Time Machine that went down well here a couple of years back. We're waiting for the director to get back from her travels to find out if it's a goer. Did I mention this before? Perhaps I'm losing what little grip I ever had.

The soccer film is still in with a chance -- see above -- but I'm not feeling all that optimistic. In a couple of weeks the producer is buggering off to some huge film--makers orgy in China where he thinks he might be able to wrest about ten million bucks from the burgeoning economies of South East Asia. I hope nobody mentions that if they want the economies to continue burgeoning it might not be smart to invest in an Australian movie. Most Australian movies are either Wank--fests for wannabe intellectuals or bogan bullshit that makes Carry On movies look like Stanley Kubrick. I don't think ours is either but I could be wrong -- it's happened before.

I think I might have to get a sensible job next year.

We did spend a fantastic week in Melbourne. What a terrific town that is. I've been there before but usually for work on a fly in, do job, piss off basis. We did spend about five days there once but with a bloke called Paul Firman -- an old mate of Dougie -- who only ever came out of the pub to visit a girlfriend or nightclub. As a consequence we saw bugger all but bars. You might actually know Firman in which case you will understand. I haven't seen Firman or, more important, Doug for ages. Must do something about that.

Great feel in Melbourne, it looks good, the people are friendly and there's heaps going on. If I wasn't such a miserable old bar steward I'd seriously consider a move.

Anyway. I'm going to sod off now.

I'll let you know what happens with the January biz.

Frank

26 November 2006 I thought Islands might work quite well as a 45 minutes radio play. It struck me as the sort of thing the BBC might do on Radio 4. I studied Bernard Shaw's Saint Joan at school in English classes and so I always thought of him as a bit limited and not very interesting. Years later I heard one of his plays (Haunted House?) and I thought it was excellent. I quite like Pygmalion (or at least the film version I saw some while back). However in general Shaw is more interested in discussing ideas than developing characters and it seems to me that this is a big draw back in a playwright. Perhaps I will get the BS birthday box. Is it a dvd or a cd? I guess the title is a joke because BS posed in his birthday suit for a photo saying he would be the only famous author you got to see in the buff. I don't think the picture would get used on a pin up calendar... I don't know what to say about you going back to work in an office, or thinking about it. I'd imagine you could sell your house and move to a cheaper one and live very comfortably off the proceeds for the rest of your life. Is this too intrusive? I'm crap at knowing where to draw the line. If I have anything useful to contribute it would be that children don't expect to leave home when they are 18, or indeed when they are 28. These days teenage lasts until middle age sets in at about 30! This can be expensive. However, you know all this. There is an irony here in that I might spit the dummy soon. Pretty much all of my working life I have been locked in conflict with middle management of one kind or another. There always seems to be some bastard who wants to tell me how to do my job, what to look like, when to arrive at the office, etc. etc. The pattern is always the same. The only job I get is where there is deep trouble. The magazine/newspaper is in deep do dos. I arrive, work like a demon and sort out the problems (if I'm given enough room to operate). For a while everyone thinks I'm Jesus Christ come down to Earth again. Then after a couple of years they begin to get fed up with me. I'm arrogant. I don't listen to the management. I treat the magazine as if it was my personal property. I'm rude to punters. Then it starts: the harassment and the campaign to put me in my place. All for my own good, you understand. If I can't manage myself they will have to manage me... That's one way of looking at it, or a way that the middle managers probably present it to the senior management. Another is that I'm a cocky bastard and I'm good at my job. I meet all my targets and deadlines. That makes me a threat since maybe I could replace them and of course the last thing middle management wants is anyone in the structure who could take their job... Office politics? It's a nightmare and it dominates the working lives of most employed people. People rarely get praised, promoted, sacked or harassed because of the way they do the job. It's usually something else. And sometimes people get a clear run simply because management is trying to be horrible to someone else.... Nightmare alley. Anyway I've been fighting a battle with my management for more than a year. It's been very gritty even by my standards (and I've run big NUJ chapels so I know a thing or two about conflict). Eventually I'm going to end up losing my job. I'll get sacked or they will pay me off or something. At 54 I don't feel that I am the flavour of the month any more. I never really felt like flavour of the month. But now I feel rancid. I went for a job interview recently, pitched at a salary level which would have been a pay cut for me and still they treated me like shit. I knew that if I got in there the company politics would kick in as soon as the honeymoon period was over. Part of the reason for this despair is that in magazines the big companies are really dinosaurs. Tools of the trade are very cheap. Almost anyone can publish their own magazine. There are very few economies of scale. So managements have to push staff to work harder and cheaper in order to justify their inflated salaries (and middle management in this business is earning about £100k). Right now the small to medium sized publishers rule the land (big ones like Emap tend to be in big trouble). But my guess is that in ten years the independents, very small companies some consisting of no more than a couple of people, will be dominant. So at 54 I know how to do it, I have the skills and contacts. Dare I spit the dummy? Maybe, if pushed... However, I still have romantic notions about going back to work for a provincial newspaper like the Sheffield Star. Sometimes I talk about it. Who knows? Anyway you asked about the pub scene. It's pretty good really. Last night I met Chris Hill at a pub in Wood Street called the Plough. This has good beer and there's nearly always someone I know there. The Irish pub at the Bakers Arms (Bootlaces) you liked hasn't changed and there's the Drum opposite selling extremely cheap and very good beer. I believe the PoW is still going. It had a sex change some while back (now it's named after Diana) but these days the acronym has been seconded by the media to mean Predatory Older Women.... I'll have to take a trip down there to see if I can find any... These days pubs stay open until about midnight (one at weekends). Maybe even later, I don't have the stamina to hang around and find out! There are probably a dozen really good restaurants round here and right now you just walk in. You don't have to book. I'd be pleased to buy you a meal some time... Public transport is crap but probably better than Sydney. The tube system seems to break down most weekends. Last weekend there were three lines down... Tubes run until about 1 and you can get night buses any time. The theatre scene is very healthy with lots going on, though I rarely go and don't really even know how to buy a ticket. I'm going to Stratford Theatre Royal to see the panto there before Christmas so I'll let you know if that's worth seeing. It usually is. I'm sure it will still be going on when you get here. Don't even think about driving. The streets are pretty safe, though most of the people I know in Leyton have been mugged in this last couple of years. There are incidents (gunfire at the Bakers Arms) but really it feels safe to walk about most of the time and the worst problem is gangs of teenage kids who probably carry knives. Truth is they mostly leave you alone. I feel as if I have over dramatised this. It's not bad at all and I wander the streets at any time without hesitation (though often without my wallet which I leave at home if it's late at night). I'd really like to pick you up at the airport. Just tell me when and which airport and I'll be there. It's horrible to arrive at an airport in a strange time zone with no one to greet you... Jo PS Not many laughs there. Sorry about that.
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January 16, 2007. Howdy Partner, at last I've managed to sort out some elements of life . . . kinda. I shall be arriving at Heathrow at some ungodly hour on February 2. It really is a sparrowfart appearance so thanks for the offer of a lift but it might be better not to bother. By the time I've rubber--gloved my way through security -- the problem with looking like a Jew is that one also looks like an Arab, is this profound? -- we'd probably hit the morning peak horror. Maybe I'd better just slink in and hop on the tube. God help us but it's been a strange few months. Sorry if this sounds a bit down but I'm sort of dragging myself out of a weird kind of bumbling, inactive pissed--offness that has only started to lift in the past week or so. For various reasons, some clear, some pretty obscure, I've barely been able to turn the rotten computer on for anything save picking up the emails. Then, for no obvious reason, but this fuzzy, feeble crap seemed to start blowing away. About fucking time! I'll be around for just over two weeks and will obviously be spending a lot of time with the olds -- the official reason for the trip. A lot . . . but not ALL. By my calcs Feb 2 is a Friday so I might be a bit rooted that weekend. We'll see. I'll have to pop down and see June in Eastbourne at some point and might visit Tony in Bristol -- haven't contacted him about that yet -- but that's all I've got on the agenda. I hear there's a bit of a (relative) heat wave over there. Hope to God it continues. Hope I get to see more of Chris this time -- thanks for his New Year wishes and, as our American cousins say: "Right back at ya!" Silly bastards. The James Street embassy of Bizzaro Planet has been even more weird than usual recently. Much of it boils down to the following: A few months back JP and his mates decided to club together and buy an airline ticket for a former schoolfriend to visit Sydney after her family moved back to NZ. "Ah," we thought, "how sweet." Unfortunately their "planning" did not include matters of nourishment and accommodation and for TWO BASTARD WEEKS after Boxing Day we were Ground Zero to an itinerant, inarticulate and wholly unpredictable, band of youths with an insatiable appetite for bacon sandwiches and my beer. The guest has an enthusiasm for vodka that could restore Russia's former economic might. Most days we woke to find the place strewn with sleeping and then catastrophically hungover adolescents bleating for medicinal bacon and restorative beverages. I confess to many a grim smile. At last the Doc Marten is on the other hoof! Actually they're a good bunch of kids but, apart from anything else, it would be nice to talk to some grown--ups! Apart for the teens and the Galloping Miserys (fortunately galloping off) there's not a lot of news at this end. This recent affliction of moody biz sounds not unlike the tone of your own recent missive. As for your comments about knowing "where to draw the line" I'm afraid you've entirely got the the wrong person for valuable comment on that one. I was way into my 40s before I even started to grasp the concept of Yes Men and, years later, got some idea of how prolific the fuckers are. Without knowing or intending it I'd racked up legions of enemies simply by trying to do my job and offer sound advice. They get particularly antagonistic if you are proved right. Another point I missed for many years was the Lust For Mediocrity. This boil on the arse of life just keeps on growing. That middle management Duffer Zone knows bugger all and breeds a generation of suckhole replacements knowing bugger less. I always thought that should anyone be daft enough to put me in a position of authority, I'd surround myself with the absolute best. Wrong. The fact is that it's very hard to find anyone in authority who actually wants things done well. They don't want excellence they want compliance, cheapness, silence, trouser--dropping toadies and a quiet life. Of course the temptation to spit the dummy is huge. I suppose, to some extent, that's what I did 14 years ago. I can't say I've never regretted it but can say I've never regretted it much or for very long. As far as the provincial newspaper romance is concerned . . . forget it! If the business there is anything like it is here it is, as we say en Australie, ROOTED! When I quit Rupertworld, convinced that nothing could be worse, I had this notion that I'd pick up a bit of freelance, check out the landscape and, maybe, settle on greener pastures. Dumb prick that I was . . . it was all appalling. Sure the freelance came in but unfortunately, with each job there was a different phalanx of fuckwits to fend off. At least with the one employer you have some idea where the shit, fan and shelter is. Anyway. I'm going to bugger off now. I'll have to rummage around a find your phone details etc. and confirm them with you before the off. Frank
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	In January/ February 2007 Frank came over to visit his parents. This is a picture (left to right) of me (Jo Brind), Chris Hill, Keith Eley and Frank Gauntlett. It was taken by Keith's wife (Suk?) at Keith's house.
Frank, Keith and I went to see The Harder They Come at Stratford Theatre Royal

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From: Frank Alan Gauntlett
To: Jo Brind
Received: Wednesday, August 22, 2007
Subject: NEWS FROM NOWHERE

Frank Gauntlett,
127 James Street,
Leichhardt 2040.

What ho!

I'm sorry for the long silence from this end. Weird shit is abroad. I'm going to send a version of this letter to Keith and Tony because if I don't do something . . . nothing will happen. Funny that.

Actually, I can remember, years ago, Tony Coll in The Flowerpot or Ping Pong Palace or somewhere, telling us funny stories about his Mum. Apparently this good lady was wont to say: "Don't some things happen in the world," a phrase that, I recall, amused us greatly back in the twentieth century. My how we laughed -- but she was right. Some things DO happen.

You might recall that when I left Australia for London in February, Jenny had broken her ankle. I wasn't feeling enthusiastic about the excursion in general, I felt bad about coming away under such ankular circs and that wasn't helped by the fact that I had such a bloody good time.

As it happened, the kids seemed to have rallied round in my absence and did a good job of wrangling Hopalong Brown. Things were pretty sensible at my return and JB continued endeavouring to persevere with great success.

Somewhat fired up by that night at the Stratford Theatre Royal, I came out fighting and bashed off a three--handed melodrama concerning a notorious murderer, swindler, thief and rake executed in Melbourne in 1892.

This was very jolly fun but now I haven't got a clue what to do with the thing. The prospect of negotiating a path through the Sydney theatre wankocracy has quite knocked my new--found enthusiasm for several. At this time I can't really be arsed. At that time, however, this slightly futile exercise kept me off the streets and cheery and at another time I might actually do something with the silly thing..

Gradually Jenny's ankle healed and life would have got back to something resembling normal but an excellent young lady called Corinne Maloney -- with whom I have worked very happily in the past and we came to be rather unlikely mates -- decided that we should produce a 90--minute pilot for a slightly unusual TV series we'd discussed and flog it to easily confused people.

Almost entirely as a result of Corinne going into a sort of hyperdrive of relentless cajoling, juggling and hard labour this rather cultish and very black comedy has but three days left to shoot. Never a dull moment round 'ere. It's all quite mad really.

I shall absent myself for one of these shooting days and then have but two days to attend the shooting. This makes me glad for it has been a challenging experience. In general I fear for the future, more specifically, I am not alone in hoping to get paid later.

The reason for this day off, see above, is that I have to take Jenny to a besuited medical specialist who sports a bow tie no less. The reasons she must attend this healer are as follows:

Shortly after the ankle had healed, Jenny took her almost daily early--morning walk with the dog. She goes to an off--leash dog park close by and chats to the fascinating members of this dog walking sub--culture while the walkees bounce about with their buddies and rejoice.

One morning, during chat, a fleet and speeding kelpie bolted into the discussion group and arrested its flight with its rock--like skull just below the Jenniferal knee on the previously unmolested limb.

The mutt was completely unphased but the leg bone was shattered.

This most unwilling invalid has now spent nearly two months in a wheelchair. . . again! She handles this wretched and irksome business with a lot of class but we're well over this.

So, all--in--all, it has been pretty full--on.

Most of the time the kids are fine but JP is in the uneasy run--up to the Aussie equivalent of A--levels and Katharine is alarmingly 14. Arrggghhhh!

In national news -- the nation is a laughing--stock.

Time has passed. Tomorrow we visit the quack and then there is but one day of shooting to survive. It must be done shunning all artificial aids and stimulants.

I have misgivings about the editing process . . . but enough of this!

I was going to finish there but more time has passed. Shooting has finished, which is a fucking relief, and I've managed to survive The Wrap Party. The Wrap Party had the potential to send a number of things tits up and, as far as I know, there was no lasting harm to anything. I actually enjoyed it more than I expected with more excellent people than arseholes.

Jenny has also got a tentative all--clear from Doctor Suit and has been to consult some Jolly Old Chook physio down the road. Major improvement in mobility and optimism high.

Today we had a Production Meeting in a pub. I had two Carlton Draught's, no more, and thoroughly enjoyed them. We discussed a whole heap of shit that needs sorting. Our Director, Mike, had to attend a funeral and left early. We chatted on: Self; Corinne; James, editor and co--director; Production Manager Mary and our curiously exotic Assistant Director, Ajita. All very peculiar really.

Many of the company, I suspect, consider me to be odd and Incredibly Ancient but, sadly, not very venerable. That's weird.

Anyway. there's this whole bloody minefield of horrible shit and surprises ahead. We call it The Dead Zone. What is real? Few survive unscathed. Nothing is what it seems.

If this reads like paranoia then there's obviously nothing wrong with your reading. I'm expecting an eventful few weeks full of strains but still actually think we might get something interesting out of this peculiar process.

Another day has passed.

JP's drama class at school. Higher School Certificate. A public presentation. Some decent coves amongst the Mums and Dads. Solos and group pieces. A chilling and sinister affair. The education system is fucked.

Tonight drinks with my friend Neale. Not a happy man. His wife Julie, a person of excellence, was greatly chuffed to win an international scholarship to MIT to study scientific journalism for eight months. As part of this prize, Neale goes along with a gold pass to take advantage of pretty much anything on offer at MIT and Harvard, an adequate purse and the historic City of Boston to explore. The prospect would have me feeling particularly tasty but, I fear, Neale just Doesn't Want To Go. Julie is already in Boston, Neale has quit a detested job and departs in a week. It's a minefield.

More time has passed. Neale has buggered off and Jenny is increasingly mobile.

Another production meeting today. Finances rooted but Director and Editor very excited about progress and want to enter Out Back in Sundance Film Fest. I can't think of a reason not to do so -- apart from the fact that winners might have to meet Robert Redford.

A thought. Do you know of any interesting festivals in the UK? At least, with a festival, the film will be seen. I've long since given up expecting people to read things and, unless there's some sly, underhand and self--serving reason, suspect they can't be bothered to watch them either. Let me know if there's anything interesting in this line at your end.

I'm going to buzz this rather silly letter off now.

Hope you and yours wax vigourous and prosperity abounds.

I'm going to bed.

Toodle--Pip

Frank

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From: Jonathan Brind
Date: 22 August 2007 19:07:23 BDT
To: "Frank Alan Gauntlett"
Subject: Re: NEWS FROM NOWHERE

Well Frank as Kipling should have said: "If you can keep your head whilst all around are losing their's you probably don't understand the situation. Paranoia, is I believe, what happens to people when like Saul (subsequently Paul) in Damascus the scales fall from their eyes. But truth is no more pleasant than ignorance, possibly less so. As God is reported to have said to Ananais, the character who helped in said scale removal, "I will show him (Saul/Paul) how much he must suffer for my name". And no I have not converted to Christianity, I had enough trouble converting to natural gas all those years ago. But isn't Wikkipedia wonderful....

I'm not totally sure if your film, 90 minute tv pilot and three hander about a notorious Sydney murderer are the same, different or related in some way. If they are three different things you seem to have gone into creative overdrive when you went back home, since it doesn't seem that long since you were over here.

The key to film making is, of course, the quality of the ants you can get. If you have fine ants it might work. If you haven't it probably won't. But usually the men in suits (or the committees of worthies) won't give fine ants unless you have a game plan, a way to get your film to market. Surely you must have a route to market?

If you want a show at a British film festival there are more of them than you can shake sticks at, should shaking sticks at film festivals be your thing. I belong to a thing called Shooting People http://shootingpeople.org/account/ which tends to chronicle them. You may be able to get a list in the public part of the web site, if not let me know and I will look in the members section of the site and find them for you. Alternatively, you could join. It only costs about £30 for a year.

This is a recent notification in a bulletin sent out by Shooting People that it is time to submit an entry to the San Francisco Ocean Film Festival. OK that isn't in the UK but most of them are.

7. Call for Entries -- San Francisco Ocean Film Festival
From: Rachel Caplan | Reply to member | Reply in bulletin
Filmmakers!
Submissions for the 2008 festival are now accepted.
Download the entry guidelines and form from our website www.oceanfilmfest.org
Films should be related to the following themes:
Ocean Sports
Environmental Issues
Marine Sciences
Ocean Exploration
Coastal and Island Cultural History
Celebrating its 5th Anniversary in 2008, The San Francisco Ocean Film Festival is the premiere event in North America dedicated to using film to enhance public appreciation for our marine ecosystems. For the past four years the organization has produced an acclaimed festival of ocean--themed films from all over the world that are largely unavailable to the general public. Themes range from ocean science and industry to sports and adventure. The films are not only intended to entertain the audience, but more importantly, to educate and encourage active participation in ocean--specific environmental efforts.
All selected films are eligible to compete in the following award categories:
Adventure Award -- for the best told adventures in, on, or around the sea
Environmental Award -- for the film that best depicts an environmental issue, or is most likely to inspire action
Wildlife Award -- for the film that offers the most original or insightful expression of an aspect of marine life
Culture Award -- for the best film portraying people for whom the sea is intrinsic to their lives
For more information, visit our website at www.oceanfilmfest.org

You get the picture.

As for me I'm afraid it is unremittingly bleak. My brother died aged 51 a couple of weeks ago. I'm going to get sacked in a couple of days. Sorry to lay that on you.

Strangely though I feel OK. It is like getting some resolution. I feel as if a new chapter of my life is starting. It might be a chapter with me living on the embankment drinking meths but I doubt it, so don't start packing the food parcels just yet...

I have just finished editing a 15 minute video (it took me about three months) and I have another couple of projects in the can (no not the dunny, the can). The videos I am making are much better now because I have given up all that bollocks about trying to make a high grade creative product, with truth, justice and integrity, and am just going for the bells and whistles, the flashing lights. I know I'm never going to be a great film maker so I might as well just impress a few people with the tricks.

You are right to be worried about the editing. I am coming to the conclusion that film making is all about editing. You could change Battleship Potemkin into Mr Hulot goes on holiday in the editing, if you had a mind to do it... It might be an interesting exercise.

Sorry about Jen's leg. She does seem to suffer. I am astonished you have dogs down there that can break a leg bone with a single bite. Are such things legal?

When I took the train across the Nullabore we s1987ped in some God foresaken hole and I took a stroll, reading the anti English rhetoric and enjoying the sunshine. When I got to the edge of town I encountered half a dozen dogs, I took them to be Dingoes. I wasn't too scared of them because they looked fairly mangy, starving hounds and I thought should they attack I could have dispatched them quite easily, but I was unaware of the Australian dog's ability to break bones.

Round here we only have Rottweilers and such like. I have been thinking of making a film about them. The reason is that these hell hounds have a tendency to get stolen (presumably for dog fighting) so quite often you see posters containing the most plaintive and banal appeals to find said hell hound (usually called something like Buster) with a picture of said hound. I thought I might phone up a few of these people and get their accounts on film... Next week I should have more time to pursue projects like that.

Best wishes and keep your pecker up,

PS I sometimes go to a News From Nowhere Club held by worthies in this vicinity about ten times a year.

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