Book Review: Dead on Time - How Barry George Executed Jill Dando (Blake, 2003)

This is a fascinating and gripping account of the Jill Dando murder by John McVicar, former gangster and now self-made freelance journalist and television dial-a-pundit.

His account of the murder and trial may be questionable but what McVicar does is to throw open the viper’s nest that is journalism in modern-day London. It is a truly eye-opening and fascinating story. McVicar is the Steve Irwin of journalists – street-wise, highly competent at his trade, yet liable to suffer the slings and arrows of a stingray at any moment (in the shape of McNamara of the Met, Al Fayed or Campbell, the detective-in-charge).

This book is the All the President's Men (Woodward & Bernstein) of murder books - it is intricate in its account of how journalism works. Alright, we're talking about a brutal murder, but only of a dumb, girl-next-door type who happened to have a successful TV career. Incidentally, one who started out (after the Weston Mercury) at Radio Devon up at St Davids Hill, in Exeter. Spookily, she may well have been working at BBC Radio Devon just when I was 19, working at EBC Group Plc at Marwood House, St Davids Hill, bang opposite.

He sets out his initial theories on who killed Jill Dando, as written up in his column in Punch magazine. He points out the pathetic mistakes of the early investigation, such as not following up the only witnesses at the scene of the crime, Richard Hughes next door at number 31 Gowan Avenue, and the other bloke, opposite).

They could have afforded the police a true description of the gunman, rather than the usual rubbish E-fit that they came up with. It's all a bit like the Yorkshire Ripper investigation, 20 years before, when they also became bogged down in their old-fashioned index card system, containing the names of thousands of suspects, only this time it's the HOLMES system. I worked for Devon & Cornwall Constabulary, here in Exeter, a few years ago, and, apart from the complexity of dealin with any database containing thousands of names, the police system is also antiquated, a sort of bespoke, MS-Dos system from the 1980s.

I like McVicar, not least because he has a cynical attitude to most things. I thought the Jill Dando-Diana media fairytale was a load of bollocks; so does McVicar. Let's face it - both were dumb blondes who knew how to play the media.

McVicar seems to be candid and honest in his account. He admits that he was misguided in targetting Hughes, the next door neighbour, and that his magazine conducted something of a witchhunt against him.

McVicar also is a consummately gifted writer, even employing lots of academic-style Latin phrases and so forth. The little apparantly irrelevant narratives thrown in - like the Finnish bird, Tiina - seem pointless. But it still makes for fascinating reading, like Philip Marlowe, or something. I particularly like his attention to detail, like when he describes Hughes and his avoiding drinking and smoking in their first meeting in the pub (when they decided he was a major suspect, after being put in the frame by Mr D, the Met insider).

I've only finished half the book, but am totally unconvinced about Barry George. He may have been just some oddball with a superstar complex who got out of his depth. Maybe it was the Serb connection after all. The particle theory - that the tiny grain of gunpowder/whatever in his Cecil Gee overcoat links him to the crime is total rubbish. What other evidence is there?

Crisis? What Crisis?

Following on from my application for a Crisis Loan, I go to the side entrance to Clarendon House for my 1pm appointment. Already, the room is packed.

The Crisis Loan payment office is a little appendage to the main Clarendon House building, just at the side, opposite the Pyramids swimming pool (which I used to go to years ago). It has old-fashioned steel framed grey doors and windows, a throwback to the 1970s. The counter itself is like the reception of Fort Knox, a little window with bullet proof glass, I imagine. However, there are some comfortable but immovable chairs to sit on, packed with about 20 people and 5 children. A few pushchairs just for good measure.

I go to one of the five interview rooms for an appointment with someone - a Customer Service Assistant, or Clerical Officer in 1970s DSS parlance - who gets me to sign a form agreeing to the terms and conditions of my £30 "loan". I agree, of course, and then sign the letter.

Everything is now in motion and I am asked to come back at 2pm to receive payment (an old-fashioned girocheque which I can take to the designated post office, up the road in Sidwell Street). The terms and conditions are basically that I agree to a £6.70 reduction from my standard Jobseeker's Allowance, whenever it is eventually paid.

I go for a walk, visit Waterstone's the booksellers up in the High Street/Paris Street junction, and then return at 2pm.

A middle-aged, tall thin man with a respectably clean shirt and tattered jeans is his mobile phone, presumably to a friend.

"The cunts won't pay me any money. They owe me a grand anywhere."

My sort of language - just plain old Derek and Clive (Peter Cook and Dudley Moore) - but a bit incongrous in this quiet, official type of place.

Eventually, the blind is pulled up at the payment counter and a woman runs her eyes over a list of people to be paid. I am on it somewhere, I hope.

"Mrs Sanderson", she proclaims in her best official yet unpompous accent. Said woman duly stands up and approaches the counter.

In the end, I go to the window and receive my cheque. £30, cashable up at the post office.

Not surprisingly, when I reach the Post Office a few minutes later (via Cheeke Street, past Somerfield - the old Express & Echo offices and printing works), the very same people who were in the queue at Clarendon House are now in the queue at the Post Office. I think the counter staff here know its Crisis Loan payment time - they must get this rush often, just at the same time.

"Today, Matthew, I am going to be... Jim Callaghan"

Today, Matthew, I am going to be Jim Callaghan...

... when he went to the IMF, that is. Or was it Denis Healey? Did they both go?

I have had to go to the IMF of the Department of Social Security, the Crisis Loan Department. All for about £30. I don't even know what the amount will be at the moment, but the bloke on the helpline - who could hardly be less helpful - said come in at 1pm. It is now 12.19pm.

How must Sonny Jim - that amiable, famously non-university, ex wages clerk Prime Minister from Portsmouth - have felt when the British government was so broke in 1976 that it went cap-in-hand to the International Monetary Fund for a handout? What a humiliation for Britain, ravaged by stagflation. I know the feeling.

I applied for Jobseeker's Allowance (they call it JSA though spell the "JS" as just one word - Jobseeker - what sense is there in that?) 3 weeks and 1 day ago, yet have received nothing. My final week's wages from the last job (£211.91) was paid 3 weeks ago on Friday yet ran out last week. That leaves £6.31 in the bank for the past few days and no prospect anytime soon of any money. What a state to land up in.

The impatient bloke on the Crisis Loan hotline (at Clarendon House, Western Way, Exeter) was constantly irritated by any comment at all from me. Perhaps he's used to hoodlums or hoodies trying it on. He sounded about 50, a veteran of the 70s, funnily enough, just like Callaghan. Seen it all at the DSS. From when it was called DHSS to its modern 3 letter acronym. Everything at the SS is a 3 letter acronym.

I assumed that the 'loan' would be whatever JSA entitlement that I had built up and not been paid - currently over 3 weeks - yet he was at pains to say that it is an actual loan that you pay back, not linked to any social security entitlement. The idiot was the most annoyed person I've ever spoken to, professionally.

I fucking hate Clarendon House. By the Paris Street roundabout, with its new 'gateway' building - supposedly a new cinema in the making - which the council hailed yet turns out to be yet another big car park, this time with a few flats on top. Awful. Just like the new Princesshay.

Now I am in Exeter Central Library, about to embark on the 9 minute walk to Clarendon House for my Crisis Loan.

San Remo mens racing bike, Claud Butler

Two months ago, I paid £320 for a Claud Butler mens racing bike, the San Remo (Triple) model, 21 speed, 22" frame. Was it worth it?

Sidwell Cycles were originally supposed to order the regular, 14 speed version. They messed up. A 21 speed, 3 chainwheels-at-the-front, version is a total waste of time. The smallest cog - ie., the lowest gears - are so low that they are simply unusable. It is surely just a marketing gimmick to add an extra cog at the front and then print on their brochures "21 speed" instead of 'just' 14 speed. Looks good on paper but actually pointless in reality.

Also, the frame is the wrong shape. It is too long. On my twenty year old Raleigh mens racing bicyle, the frame is larger but shorter. 4 inches shorter. This means that the new Claud Butler bike takes a while to get used to. In the end, though, I got used to it.

Sidwell Cycles ordered the medium size frame - against my express wishes - yet ultimately made the right decision as the large frame would have been way too long.

Overall, however, it is a superb bike. I wasted no time in going to Halfords to buy one of their cycle computers, all for the ridiculously low price of £10. Ten pounds for what would have been space age technology a mere twenty years ago. I can now go for a run down to the coast - about 15 miles - and have a constantly updated record of distance, journey time, odometer, average speed and, the best measurement, speed.

I can cycle past Woodmanton farm, an uphill struggle through tiny country lanes (little more than paths, with enormous tractors appearing at any moment as if through a hedgerow) on the way to Budleigh Salterton, join the B3179, and then enjoy the 2 mile downhill stretch through Dalditch, reacing 39 mph on my speedometer. It beats travelling by car any day, especially on a warm sunny day.

The wheels are 700x25, about 27 inches. They have a narrow tread, smaller than the old Raleigh bike of the 1980s, enabling fast cycling. The seat's a bit small and the handlebars a bit big ("oversized" apparantly), but it is a delight to cycle.

If you want a cheap racing bike, then at £320 the San Remo is a bargain. Why pay £1000 upwards for a Greg Lemond just to have carbon fibre forks? You're paying an extra £1000 for some stupid lightweight forks which are liable to break and won't even make any difference to cycling, for the amateur.

Claud Butler have a range of bicycles: racing (road) bikes, hybrid bikes and the usual idiotic mountain bikes. They are all made by Falcon Cycles of Brigg, Lincolnshire, a last refuge of British cycling, I imagine.

As for bicycle shops in Exeter, I'm not really sure who is the best. Sidwell Cycles are handy - not far from town - and offer the usual maintenance facilities, etc. Halfords, in Sidwell Street, are pathetic. The manager there wouldn't even let me try out a racing bike before buying. The Bike Shed, at the top of Fore Street, are the Rolls Royce of bike shops, with various racing bikes priced at £2000.