Cathedral Close

The junction of Martins Lane, Catherine Street and the close itself, just by the ancient church of St Martins, is probably the Piccadilly Circus of Exeter, certainly a pedestrian version. To stand here at lunch time on a working day is to see an endless stream of very busy people, mainly office workers, all making their way to wherever they are going. It is like a busy cross-roads but with no traffic lights.

Sometimes people collide, make a brief apology, and then walk on. However, I was just standing there, in no particular hurry, observing the Big Issue seller on the usual spot at the corner of the Royal Clarence Hotel. Why the hell do they continue to sell that awful magazine? What is the point?

This time a young woman, who was well-dressed, clean-looking, called out repetitively "Big Issue, sir?" time after time, as though it really was a big issue. Well, there is no issue and I am sick and tired of being pestered to buy their stupid magazine. Admittedly, she did call out "Happy Christmas" to people when they had passed on, but it is annoying nonetheless. It is irritating. I don't mind if a drunk asks me for some money - particularly if they say it is for drink - and I usually offer 50p if I have it. That is fine.

I remember about a year ago, in Paris Street outside the Honiton Inn, a drunk and vagrant approached me and explained, very carefully, that he was an alcoholic, was on the streets, was signing on but didn't have any money for a drink as his girocheque had not arrived ... could I help? Well, of course I could help and I dug deep - in my very shallow pockets - and managed to provide a £1 coin, just to ease his distress in whatever small way I could manage. That is what I call real begging, of the most honest and heart-felt kind. I know what it's like to need a drink, to dull the pain. It is something that many people need at a certain stage in their lives; I would not begrudge anyone that small salvation. Another two £1 donations/contributions and he is well on the way to a very strong bottle of cider. Good luck to him.

I went into the SPCK bookshop, just on the opposite corner (Martins Lane and Catherine Street) for the first time in about ten years. This place burnt down a few months ago but has been restored to its ancient condition, the more so the higher up you go inside.

It is pokey, particularly right up on the third floor, but it does have an interesting collection of antique books, including a few on Exeter. Westcountry Old Books (David Neil) operates from the top floor, which is just like a private study, complete with writing desk and correspondence; its most treasured and expensive items are locked away in glass display cases, a bit like the Royal Albert Museum.

And a great view from their top window, looking out onto the Close itself (the very scene of the first pages of Bram Stoker's Dracula, if you ever read the book).

Oddfellows Hall is a fine building, just behind St Martins Church, what I would say is typical of pre-War Exeter; lots of character and some interesting local stonework. A small building, hidden away in one of the many nooks and crannies of Exeter, yet displaying enormous character and architectural interest. Who were the Odd fellows? Were they ancestors of Jack Lemmon and Walter Matthau?

It's dignity is, however, tainted by the Raw shoe shop next door, its ridiculously loud dance music blasting out endlessly through its open door; same goes for the Piccolo's cafe/bar next door, respectively.

Today, I visited two churches, an unusual event. Firstly, the Cathedral. They recommend contributing £3.50 upon entry, but it is voluntary and I never give such money to anyone voluntarily! The gift shop inside seems to expand by the week, full of the most kitsch, ecclesiastical trinkets and junk imaginable - miniature, silver-plated models of the cathedral and various school stuff like pencils and erasers. But also some interesting books, pictures and china.

What look and sound like a professional singing medley are in preparation - at about 1.30pm - right in the middle of the main floor, under the apex, singing, practicing, performing eccentric little movements with their bodies. Who are they? Some outfit from London, the Guildhall School of Music or something? No, they are West Exe Community College, that delightfully named, recently-rebuilt school out in Alphington, near the Sainsbury's supermarket (brand new school under construction and Premier league, floodlit hockey/soccer pitch and so forth).

On leaving the cathedral there are about another fifty of them all heading towards the great church for their evening concert, a night of fame in front of hundreds of paying guests. Their uniform is dark, navy blue and black... just like my old school in Kent. Perhaps on this very night will be borne the next Charlotte Church... or Joss Stone (who comes from Uffculme, ten miles up the M5).

Then, it's a quick look inside St Martins Church, today holding a large sale of Christmas cards dedicated to almost every charity imaginable. You can take your pick - whole boxes arranged on the tables according to charity: Mind, Sane, Help the Elderly, or something... The list is endless. They are all £3.99 for ten cards, of varying sizes, 40p each with probably only 5p going to charity. Pathetic.

It is often said that the close, in a broad sweep starting in the far, north-eastern corner, displays the whole gamut of building styles and ages, from the most ancient to the most modern in the south-western corner. This is true. It ranges from ancient, thirteenth century red stone, half-timbered buildings to modern, 1950s rubbish made from concrete. The old Exeter bank - towards the latter end, beside the old St Petroc's church - is a fine eighteenth century classical building.

It reminds me a bit of the illustrious Pantiles in Royal Tunbridge Wells, a more modern version of the same theme. One sad thing was that in the Pantiles, in about 1989, the council saw fit to literally 'fill-in' a beautiful old garden, sandwiched by the terracing, with flats, albeit old-style and designed to blend in with the rest of the Pantiles. I wouldn't put anything past the town planners of Exeter City Council.

I would normally forget all of this, despite the early hour, with a quick adjournment to the Ship - 'next to mine own Shippe...', the famous Frankie Drake quote on the door - but today I have to go to work at 4pm. Never mind.

What do all of the ever larger number of Spanish students make of all of this? They wander around Exeter in small bunches, only identifiable by their enviable youth, dimunitive stature and dark, black hair - just like me - and the occasional burst of foreign language overheard. They are very welcome, as far as I am concerned.

Indeed, there are more permanent foreigners in Exeter now than ever before, brought to this ever-greater metropolitan oasis - set within the great, green rolling hills of the Devon countryside - like bees to the honey pot of the University, probably 10,000 students by now, and the flourishing local economy and service sector (£5.50 an hour, thanks). There are also more restaurants and pubs in Exeter than ever before, most serviced by migrants and students, I would imagine. The latest addition, Wetherspoons in South Street, opens.... very, very soon!

In fact, the great actor from Plymouth, Charles Dance - the very epitomy of the traditional, noble English gentleman in hits ranging from Jewel in the Crown and Gosford Park to Tmavomodrý svet - recently spoke in the local paper about the reputation of Exeter and how it had a certain sophistication compared with its great maritime and industrial rival forty miles over Dartmoor and the South Hams.

It is this very green in which I now stand, Cathedral Close, that is responsible for the modern Exeter (if one excludes the Roman contribution, perhaps the original establishment of the city, here). For in 1050, the now tranquil market town of Crediton was quietly abandoned by the great Diocese, which decided to move to Exeter. The Diocese - a bit like the FA of today - decided to build its new Wembley stadium in Exeter and not Crediton; otherwise, we could have been writing of Crediton today.

I also - for the first time ever, since it is not open to the public - had a quick walk up the drive of the Bishop's Palace, over in Palace Gate. This really is a fine area of the city centre, not much changed from several hundred years ago. The Palace itself is the typical Heavitree red stone, very much medieval in appearance. Since it was all built and paid for by forced contributions from their congregation, over hundreds of years, I think they've got a bloody nerve posting great signs stating 'Private Property'. Who do they think they are? It was like forced taxation.

In a way, the Church was like an early invention of privatisation, all backed by brain-washing and a great ideology. They took the money by making ordinary people feel guilty, built their great churches and manors, and then banned everyone from looking at what they paid for. Great.


LINKS
A history of the SPCK bookshop in Cathedral Close (and some of the other nearby buildings):

http://www.dc.eclipse.co.uk/spck1.htm

Contains some excellent photographs; also, in its history of the Clarence Hotel, some details of the visit of Nicholas I of Russia, later the Czar. Incredible.

The Watchmaker of Sidwell Street

After my usual, twice-weekly, five mile walk into town up the steep hills of Argyll Road and the Duryard Valley Park, and then down Rosebarn Lane into Exeter, I was passing the Odeon when I saw the watchmakers, opposite. This reminded me of something.

The eastern end of Sidwell Street is a new part of Exeter, mostly re-constructed after the war and the outside of David Cooper Watchmaker Ltd is not very promising. It is a modern, red brick building, its ground floor shop glazing all holding up about four floors of flats/maisonettes above. It is ripe for redevelopment.

Also, there used to be another watch maker sort of built into the corner of the Odeon cinema - 2 Odeon Buildings - a cubby hole in the corner just large enough to accommodate a watchmaker. But David Cooper now has a fine shopfront, maroon with heavy white lettering in one of the more modern fonts. Very professional.

In fact, about three months ago, when I was floundering in the Wormwood Scrubs of poverty, unable even to afford a sandwich, I tried to sell them a watch which they didn't want, of course. This is a professional, serious watchmakers and they don't accept any old rubbish, such as Rotary, even if it did cost £100. However, I have another Rotary watch and the battery ran flat several weeks ago; it's only since I started the new job that I now need to know the time and I've been carrying around a bedside alarm clock. Even the clock in the Renault, on the dashboard, has stopped working.

There was a time, perhaps from the age of 20 to 25, when I never used a watch. In truth, I rarely needed to know the time anyway, but I also got used to taking note every time I passed a clock or listened to the radio. There is an art to it and I found that you nearly always knew the time to within three or four minutes, sort of topping up every time you got the opportunity. But it does take quite some effort of mental concentration to operate in this manner and so in the end I started to wear a wristwatch.

I remember when I worked as a door-to-door canvasser all over Los Angeles in the summer of 1990, my manager - a dubious, sanctimonious, 'godly' man at Friends of the United Nations, a 'charity' that attempted to raise support for the UN (?) - told me that he had once operated the same system. Incidentally, this was a summer exchange/visa system under the auspices of BUNAC (Bowling Green Lane, near Farringdon, whose offices I visited to complete the paper work); I later worked for a similar, though better charity, called Citizens for a Better Environment (so successfully, in fact, that they tried to persuade me to stay on when I said I was returning to Britain).

"Do you replace batteries in watches?" I showed him my watch.

"Yes, of course; take a seat."

He took my watch to the watch repairer at the back of the shop, visible through a specially made window. He was busy at work and looked like a total professional, surrounded by the accoutrements of his trade, various machines and lots of clocks and watches. Screwdrivers and vices of varying descriptions. This was a truly professional watch shop. Unlike H Samuel who do no repairs at all and simply advised me to go to Debenhams. I would say that David Cooper Watchmakers are the Royal Clarence Hotel of Exeter watch shops (with H Samuel the corner cafe, or perhaps McDonalds, as it were).

The proprietor - Mr Cooper - reminded me of the Gunsmith (the actor Syril Cusack) in the film Day of the Jackal. He was very - inordinately, perhaps - polite and totally dedicated to his work, just the sort of attitude you like to see in a professional. He could almost have said 'will the gentleman be standing?' had he been in the firearms trade.

The shop was a delight, its walls covered in watches and clocks of every known genre and make. There was a James Stewart (of Armagh) grandfather clock for £5190 and various other makes and types, including a Barograph with plotting arm and so forth. I imagine there is a scientist of some sort at the Met Office who has been there for thirty years, relocated from Bracknell, and has been into this very shop, an obsessive of horology and barometers.

There was a Snell grandfather clock, too. And, as it was just turning 1 o'clock, I was treated to the reality of 'on the hour' in a true watchmakers shop, a whole euphony of chimes and bells; there might even have been a cuckoo clock. Perhaps Orson Welles, in the great film The Third Man, was wrong to ridicule the Swiss, after all.

In the mean time, Mr Cooper finished with his existing customer. He paid and then departed, saying that he hoped to return again.

"I very much hope so, indeed." said Mr Cooper, the epitome of politeness, and it was then that I discerned a definite Ulster accent, possibly Belfast though less harsh and mellower. I wonder if Cooper is an Ulster name?

Meanwhile, his assistant, the workman, just four minutes later presented me with my watch, now ticking away very well. He was delighted and so was I. £5.50, a very large sum for me these days, but a job very well done, all in good time.

If you require first class service and professional watchmaking expertise of the highest order then there is no other place to go in Exeter than David Cooper.

David Cooper Watchmakers Ltd:
http://www.exeter-clocks.co.uk/

Exeter City draw Man Utd in the FA Cup 3rd Round

This is the great, fantastic draw that they just needed...

Ian Huxham was on TalkSport Radio today talking about this amazing draw, the day before. He was right to sound utterly amazed. He spoke about the 3rd round tie, saying - jokingly - that if Man Utd played a few reserve players, you never know...

I love Ian Huxham. I remember him parading down the touchline at St James's Park, back in July, when the Brazil Masters visited, in front of about 7,000 at the Park. He went on the pitch at half-time, with a microphone, talking to the crowd, from the Doble Stand side of the pitch. He is a natural showman, total charisma, every inch the part. He spoke to the crowd, urging us to recognise the great Brazilians, show some support and create some atmosphere. Not only does he love the club - anyone can see that - but he is a local man and he is a credit to Exeter City. Even his name comes from a local village, Huxham, near Stoke Canon. He is superb. A great media operator. He deserves to go on from this and be even more successful in the Premier League.

This match has actually secured the entire future of the football club. If Man Utd get 50,000 at £20 a ticket then that's £1 million, shared 50-50, with £500,000 for Exeter City. They need to raise about £700,000 by next October so they have just about done that. It is all thanks to Dean Moxey and his great goal on Saturday in the 2nd Round when City won 2-1 against Doncaster Rovers.

This is great news for Exeter City. Strangely, I went into the Red or Dead campaign shop in Bedford Street last Wednesday and he spoke of needing that amount of money, the man in the shop, and they have just done it! I thought that if they beat Doncaster then they might get Man Utd; they have just done it! Brilliant!

Last Saturday, Southampton were 10-1 to win at Old Trafford, which must make Exeter about 50-1. They may, however, be shorter odds than Yeading, who are to play Newcastle United; Yeading are two leagues down from Exeter.

London Heathrow

The call came late. On Saturday night, calling J in Israel, I was politely asked if I could travel to London to collect the family, J, Z and G, from Heathrow Airport. Naturally, I didn’t hesitate for one moment to offer my help. I always like to help if I can, in whatever small, tiny way.

I haven’t been to Heathrow for seven years, since I was at DHL and went on a two day business trip to Brussels, Terminal 1. I've only been to London about twice in the last five years, as well.

That was last night (Saturday). Today, Sunday, I awoke at my usual early hour – about 6am these days – and prepared to leave for London. First stop was to visit mum to get the money for the fuel; then, on to Glastonbury to pick up the superb Mitsubishi Carisma and drive to London.

I arrived at Glastonbury at about 11.45am. There was the problem with finding the keys – placed in a too obvious place of the garden shed for the front door and the kitchen drawer for the car keys – and then off to London. I chose the A303, directly, via Kingsdon and Podimore and then straight to London on the M3 via Richmond, Kew and Ealing. Well, the plane was cancelled, of course, just as I suspected and the arrival time of 15.40 was put back by three hours to 18.40. Ideal for a quick visit to L in Madeley Road.

I nearly crashed in Kew, just by the London Welsh rugby ground. Driving along, feeling very tired and fiddling around with stuff in the car, I suddenly looked up to realise I was driving too fast – only 30mph – for the conditions and was about to hit the car in front. I braked suddenly, the wheels locked, despite the ABS, and I had to avoid the car in front by aiming for the pavement. I did, of course, look very carefully and if there had been people walking I would have had to hit the car in front; but, there was no-one there and I went onto the pavement. This is pure luck. The driver behind, not surprisingly, kept well back for the next mile.

At Kew Bridge, I noticed my old haunts of seven years ago: the Strand Café and then the Brentford/Chiswick roundabout leisure centre where I used to play squash and visit for lunchtimes. I also noticed the Ask pizza restaurant just on the south side of Kew Bridge, which, in a way, was where I started out back on August 12, 1997; I was taken for a meal there by my new colleagues at lunch time. What a fucking disaster. For, it was here that they took me in my very first lunch hour on the day I started, in my minute career as a Technical Author (Graduate Trainee).

I also noticed the large Vantage West building on the Great West Road bang opposite where I used to work. I noticed the new flats in Brentford, right near Kew Bridge, which were only under construction back then. I noticed Gunnersbury Park, which I used to walk through on my way to work from Elthorne Park Road, about three miles from where I worked at Chiswick roundabout.

Then up Gunnersbury Lane on the North London Circular, past the old house of Sid James, and to Larry’s. He was not in. I then thought I may as well go to Eileen’s to kill the extra three hours I had to spare.

At Eileen’s they have a new security system on the door, unlike ten years ago when anyone could just walk in, so I had to phone her on mum’s mobile phone to get her to open the door. I rang her.

But, at that very point, L turned up and opened the door. Naturally, after a few pleasantries at Eileen’s, I suggested to Larry that we adjourn for a pint. The view from Eileen's is spectacular, worthy of a flat of a million pounds. Eileen said that is why she stayed there.

At the Grosvenor pub, near where I used to live, in Hanwell, we had a nice couple of pints (well, me just one, as I am driving). I used to love that pub, a traditional London pub, only, strangely, hidden away in a very back-street area and totally incongruous with its surroundings. However, I passed a few evenings playing pool there on their enormous pool table.

We go to the Fox pub, as well, hidden away down by the canal in Hanwell, somewhere I never discovered back in 1998, my last time in this area. What a long time. There are a couple in the corner - he about 45, her about 30 - the most in-love couple I have ever seen. Perhaps there is hope for me, yet.

Drop L off at Eileeen’s and then off to Heathrow. The roads around Hounslow are so busy with traffic. But, I met J, Z and G at Terminal 1 – where there is not even a bar – and then back to the main Arrivals car park and a ten minute hunt for the car; where the hell did I park it? I love the moment where you meet someone from the airport. I have only done this about three times before in my entire life but it is great to meet people at the airport, just like in the great film Love Actually.

They have a cordon keeping people back about 10m from where people walk through from their plane and it is superb. It is dramatic. You just wait there, the suspense building up as you see group-after-group arrive and walk on and it is never your person or people. You can just imagine how the great Richard Curtis stood and watched this same scenario, thinking of his next film. It is like a National Lottery scratchcard, scratching off one symbol after another and wondering if the next is your symbol.

There are a lot of people - I will now call them M people, after my cousin, the drivng specialist and obsessive (five years of 60 hours a week driving) - who hold up placards for various businessmen arriving at the airport. It is so impersonal. A placard that reads 'Racheed' and a driver who looks both concerned and bored at the same time. He is just doing his job. I even ask one of them if there is a bar in the Arrivals section of Termina 1 but he sounds bemused - in an Irish accent - and I go off to buy a tea, instead.

J came through looking upwards for a bar as I had said I would be in the bar. Just a tea in the Costa coffee bar, £1.39. There is something strange about places like this; you have a lot of people who work there - mostly foreigners, for some reason - who are completely oblivious to the sheer drama of the place. There are people arriving in Britain for the first time ever, visibly excited to set foot in Britain, survive customs, and then meet their loved ones. Yet these workers are completely disinterested. Perhaps you have to be a one-off, day visitor, to appreciate the drama.

J had promised me a bottle of Laphroaig whiskey – at my suggestion (well, after he had said he would buy me something in Duty Free) – but they don’t operation customs in intra-European flights these days, of course. I am a very humble person and I don’t expect anything from anyone and certainly not a ransom for collecting someone from the airport. It is the very least I can do to help someone.

At Fleet Services - the old service station, the first on the M3 heading west - J produced some money, about £100, and offered it to me. No, I can't accept anything like that, certainly not for something so routine and dutiful as collecting your brother in London, particulary if you have nothing else to do, and I declined. "Well, £20 would be fine, thanks."

G looks unbelievably tired; well, he is only just five years old.

We eventually find the car, somewhere up on Level 4. And, then, it is off to Glastonbury for the return journey. I am slightly annoyed that the car park ticket machine does not allow you to retain the ticket which you had in the first place; this is the essence of a souvenir, documenting your past from documents. Never mind.

A short debate on whether to go to Hounslow first, to get some fuel, or to just carry on via the M4 to the Westcountry. We chose the latter, arriving at Fleet in a very short thirty minutes. Thank God we didn't go to Hounslow, the traffic was awful.

At around Chicklade we entered probably the worst fog I have ever seen, visibility reduced to about ten feet. J was driving so I advised him to slow right down. This is sort of Salisbury Plain country, quite hilly and drifting fog is probably not uncommon. Then, a quick stop at the Sparkford roundabout services, in particular the 24 hour Spar shop, very handy indeed.

Actually, earlier in the day, I had even managed to call into the South Somerset Tourist Information centre by the Cartgate roundabout and services, it usually being shut when I pass out of hours. But, inside, they have some of the finest free leaflets seen anywhere, stuff on all of the splendid market towns in south Somerset: Crewkerne, Somerton, Yeovil, Ilminster and so on. Their staff are very helpful, too. In fact, it is incredible that they still operate the place in the middle of December.

Castle Cary is a delight, too. Really, the lesson is to come off the main road - something no-one ever seems to do these days - and visit some of these places out of the way. Montacute is another fine place, typically the yellow, gold Ham stone village with the enormous Elizabethan mansion.

News Review section, Sunday Times - the Journalism of the Simpsons

I used to like the News Review section of the Sunday Times, but after reading the article They're Out to Get Me. It's all a Conspiracy (Sunday, 5 December, 2004), I had no choice but to write to its author, Jasper Gerard, a total moron pretending to be a serious journalist. Gerard makes Norman Shields - the idiot journalist in the Norman Wisdom comedy, Press for Time (1966) - look like Malcolm Muggeridge or Gareth Jones.


THEY'RE OUT TO GET ME. IT'S ALL A CONSPIRACY. SUNDAY TIMES, 5 DECEMBER 2004 - SUB-O LEVEL/GCSE STANDARD OF WRITING (WRITTEN IN 10 MINUTES?)

Dear Sir,

After reading your pathetic article, above, I feel I have no choice but to comment on what is, sadly, the most appalling and amateurish piece of writing that I have ever seen in the News Review section of the Sunday Times. I can only assume that you wrote the article in about ten minutes or that you are simply a totally incompetent and amateurish writer. (Or a 13 year old masquerading as a serious journalist on the Sunday Times).

I would point out the following faults:

SYNTAX
Your work displays a sub-O Level standard of English grammar and the basics of syntax. Take the following example:

But last week Galloway won a libel action against The (sic) Daily Telegraph, which claimed he had received bungs from Saddam after finding some papers in Baghdad.

Does your sentence, above, mean that Galloway received bungs because he found some papers in Baghdad? Try actually thinking about the construction of the sentence – the ordering of clauses – before writing. You should have written this sentence as:

But last week Galloway won a libel action against the Daily Telegraph, which, after finding some papers in Baghdad, claimed he had received bungs from Saddam.

In the latter sentence – my suggestion – the reader does not become confused about who received bungs and why. Your sentence makes it look like Galloway received bungs because he found some papers in Baghdad.

I would suggest, Mr Gerard, that you get some remedial tuition in elementary English grammar and syntax.

ATTEMPTS AT RHETORIC/FIGURATIVE LANGUAGE
Your attempts at rhetoric and figurative language are embarassingly hopeless and pathetic.

Take the following example:

You talk of ‘Gorgeous George’ all the time; this is a boring, banal cliché and shows no originality at all, especially as you use the phrase repeteadly. Your attempt at a joke - in using the phrase Lord Galloway of Gorgeous - is what you would expect from a 16 year old, never mind a professional journalist on the Sunday Times.

You speak of ‘young British squaddies’ being ‘fearful in Fallujah’. Is this a serious attempt at alliteration or some sort of reinforcement of what you are saying? It is pathetic, amateurish, facile rubbish, just what you would expect from a 13 year old writing a school essay. Your banal phrase was obviously written to fit your limited writing skills and limited knowledge of the war in Iraq, as it takes no notice of the total absence of British troops anywhere near the town of Fallujah. British troops remained at Camp Dogwood, just running a few sorties in its environs; get your facts 'write'.

Similarly:

‘everyone bar the coffee cups’? What the hell does that mean?

‘yes it would be good to have honey for tea’. What does that mean?

CHILDISH/TEENAGE STYLE OF WRITING
You actually begin entire paragraphs with words and phrases such as:

‘I’m left thinking, yeah, right.’ (Which is not even punctuated correctly. To be effective, it should have read: I'm left thinking: 'yeah, right!')
‘Hmmm.’
‘Ouch.’
‘Hang on George.’

How old are you, Mr Gerard? You write like a 10 year old American child, someone who obviously spends too much time watching rubbish on 'telly' (as you put it), such as the Simpsons.

In your mugshot next to the article, you look about 35 years old, or thereabouts. However, you write like a 13 year old. I am very sorry to be so critical; it is just that I began reading what I thought would be a serious, interesting article on George Galloway but realised I was reading complete rubbish. Please, Mr Gerard, spend some more time thinking about your writing before getting it published. You owe us all that small grace.

Many thanks

Frankie, Devon.

LINKS
GARETH JONES
This is a link to a tremendous, fantastic and comprehensive website on the giant of war reporting and serious journalism, Gareth Jones:

http://colley.co.uk/garethjones/index.htm

Gareth Jones - independently of Malcolm Muggeridge, his equally sublime and ground-breaking fellow-journalist - visited the Ukraine in the great famine/genocide of 1932-3. He produced some of the greatest factual journalism of all time, I would suggest, and deserves far greater recognition. He also wrote about the rise of Hitler and Mussolini, de Valera, Lord Craigavon and Ireland, China/Manchuria and other matters. He wrote for the Western Mail, Manchester Guardian, Times, Evening Standard and other papers. He wrote on rural Wales and Ireland and America; check the website for every single article.

Gareth Jones spoke fluent Russian, German, and four other languages; he did not use slang and colloquial rubbish, and would never sink to using 'Simpsons' - had it existed back then - in professional, serious newspaper writing. I would even venture to suggest that he was a greater writer than the mighty Orwell. Even George Gissing.

In his work for the Western Mail, he wrote a series of reports on social and economic conditions in Wales and visited many towns and villages, including Merthyr, Barry and those of the Valleys. In one article, he discusses the work of the Workers' Educational Association, that fine B & Q/Do it All of education which, to this day, has in nearly every large town in Britain a little hall somewhere continuing the good work. (I once attended a WEA course, back in Brighton, in 1992).

Alas, Gareth Jones was killed by bandits, in China in 1935, at the age of 30. Otherwise, he would have been a literary colossus of the 20th century, without doubt.


MALCOLM MUGGERIDGE
Try this link for the writing of Muggeridge on the Ukraine famine and genocide:

http://www.artukraine.com/famineart/muggeridge5.htm

Malcolm Muggeridge - see his article Most Terrible Thing I Have Ever Seen - is credited with telling the West about the terrible famine and genocide in the Ukraine, during which cannibalism was rife.