10.27AM At the morning news meeting Max the editor of Global Business turns to all the journalists in his cramped office and says he is going to write an editorial about the danger of hatred towards bankers and how the financial sector should respond. “Does anyone have any thoughts on this subject?” Without cognitively registering that my vocal chords had moved, I heard myself say: “Perhaps the next time they could at least learn to aim better and finish the job.”
Perhaps out of sympathy, or because of the awkward silence that greeted my comments, Max gave out a surprised chuckle. He was a short man with extremely thick glasses, giving him the air of someone who is caught half way between furrowed contemplation and amusement at the absurdity of existence. He was generally cheerful and beaverish, with a classic editor’s ability to shout and jump up and down at appropriate moments. I could never quite read him, believing that, as a newsman to the marrow, he lived for the business and the Story, and everything and everyone else was secondary to this passion in his life. You either joined him in his insatiable enthusiasm, or got out of the way. I grinned nervously then reverted to a serious expression, noticing that no one else in the room appreciated my sudden outburst. “What I mean is this man is clearly a crook. And it was very convenient that he was shot the day before he was due to appear before a Senate committee and tell them what he knew about his bank’s off balance sheet operations.”
“Thanks Nick, there’s definitely something strange about it all – I had no idea you felt so strongly about the subject. Who do you think would want to shoot him?”
“The bank? It’s clients? I’ve no idea.”
Senior reporter Nina then chipped in: “What the bankers need is a marketing campaign, like a guy taking his kids to school, growing his own vegetables, giving blood, riding a bike, and then turning up at his investment bank, to show how bankers are human too.” She did not crack a smile, keeping her usual poker face. I felt a smirk break out uncontrollably but everyone else remained poker faced. Then Nina, easily the best journalist on the team, gave me a wink. “Of course no-one would believe it.” Everyone laughed, mostly in relief I suspected. Nina was a single-minded, ambitious workhorse, also shortsighted, with the thickest glasses available making her appear to be permanently squinting and narrowly focused. She was Jewish, but she had somehow missed out on the attractive, smouldering Semitic genes and been given those of the heavy-set field hand. She had upstaged me, as always. My outburst seemed to bring a sudden close to the meeting as everyone shuffled out nervously. I did not look anyone else in the eye. I left the news meeting feeling a vague queasiness, as if somehow I am an imposter, a fraud, and that other journalists and editors are really there doing the job that destiny and their own talents has found for them. I am riding a surf board without a license and it is only a matter of time before I fall off and get very wet. On the way back to the desks, Nina said: “Nick. Nice intervention there. Funny.
“Funny weird or funny ha ha?”
“A bit of both,” she smiled disconcertingly. “Oh yes, how’s the exotic futures piece coming on?”
“Nearly finished. You’ll have it by end of the day.”
11.03 AM. MSN msg from Ibn Khattab: Hey Nick, I wouldn’t go out in the City today. It’s the day of the Overwhelming Event, as written in the Holy Book.
11.06. Nick to IK:
What Event? What do you mean? What does the book say – do you mean the Quran?
11.07 IK to me: Go and read the word of Allah.
My conversations with Ibn Khattab began some years back in the wake of the London Tube bombings. He popped up on a forum on the Whatreallyhappenedon911.com, alleging that 7/7 was some kind of false flag operation, an inside job. He stood out for appearing reasonably intelligent and sane among the rants and semi-coherent ramblings one found on the site, with their bad spelling and hatred of Jews. I did not buy his conspiracy theory, but I wanted to know more about this man with an archaic Arabic nom de plume.
A friend of mine had a close run with one of the 7/7 bombs and her friend died. She had to walk through a tunnel on the Piccadilly Line and she was pretty shook up by the experience. My own reaction to this was mixed. I was strangely unmoved. The widespread emotional reaction to these bombings, the outburst of British stoicism and Blitz spirit, lacked context and proportion. Every day in Iraq more than 50 people were dying at the time in similarly horrible bombings, massacres and military operations. I had small nephews, new to the world. Children who shone out as precious and vulnerable. The possibility of them coming to harm was the clearest marking between a good and evil world. Driving down the motorway one day, the radio news reported a car bomb killing a bus full of school pupils. I cried out and swerved, railing not only at the unspeakable perpetrators, but at a world in which such a thing could happen at all. Did these cold-blooded killers not too have children or nephews and nieces? War is hell, we know, and this is what hell means
I waded the backwaters of the internet in search of clues to the mindset of young British Muslim men, the ones who would blow themselves up for their jihadi cause. What motivated them? The war, the war stupid. But history too. A narrative emerged of western Governments engaging in a 200-year campaign of subversion and adventures in the Muslim world, ending with the fall of the Caliphate in 1924 and the creation of Israel in 1948. Nothing had gone right for the Muslims since.
When I probed him online, Ibn Khattab helped me fill in the picture: “The British have got a lot to answer for.”
“I have a feeling you’re going to tell me why. “
“Yes. You usurped the Mughals in India, waged several wars in Afghanistan, although they gave you a good beating, but you didn’t learn from that. You occupied Egypt, Sudan and Aden, and your hero Churchill stuck a bunch of puppet tribal rulers on ech of the oil wells in the Gulf.”
Nick: “Hang on, what’s with the ‘you’? Churchill is not my hero! And you know what, I didn’t do any of this.”
IK ignored by plea. “You tricked the Arabs into fighting the Turks, promising them freedom and using them to capture Jerusalem for the Christians in 1917. That was clever – taking back the Holy Lands after the Muslims finished off the infidel occupiers 700 years ago. But you don’t give up. The new Crusaders came back using Saddam as an excuse.”
I decide to change tack, move him off his diatribe. “I respect your position, there’s a lot to what you say. But you can’t really believe that you can go back to the Seventh Century, when a man could marry a nine-year old and you could lock your wife up and beat her, not too much of course, because the Prophet said it was okay by God.”
There was silence, then. “You’re talking blasphemy. Be careful. There’s a lot of anti-Muslim propaganda on the internet.”
“But you can’t deny that according to the Quran a woman’s testimony is worth half a man’s, and she inherits half of what he inherits. Muhammed kept how many wives exactly?
“Those marriages were nearly all political, to form alliances. “
“And what about his Copt slave girl?”
“I don't know about that. Mohammed, PBUH, and his followers freed 40,000 slaves. He personally freed over sixty. Islam says that all people are equal under God, that slave and free man and woman are siblings. When Islam spread, it came into contact with Roman and Christian society where slavery was completely acepted. It’s not like they could just abolish it. Slavery was part of the order of things but Islam tried to improve the position of all people, including the slaves. Listen to me – honestly I’m no expert on this stuff. Read the Hadith.”
“No time.”
“Okay. Mohammed, PBUH, made a slave - Zayd ibn Harithah - his adopted son. He told his followers to free their slaves whenever they could. Bilal, the first muezzin – you know, the guy who makes the call to prayer – was an African slave. This proves that Islamic slavery is nothing like western slavery. The Prophet said that Arabs and non-Arabs, blacks and whites, men and women, were all equal under God, no different than the teeth on a comb. Under Islam, slaves are not just cattle, they have rights, a conscience, they can buy their freedom, become esteemed administrators, even rulers.”
“What about all the concubines kept by Mohammed and his followers? Why was Mohammed allowed to marry more than four wives, including a nine year old girl?”
“His marriage to Aisha was to strengthen his alliance with Abu Bakr, who became the first Caliph after the death of the Prophet. PBUH. He also married and freed his Jewish concubine Safiyya and made her Mother of the Believers.“
“I see. But doesn’t all this just show that Islam is the work of a man, and one who enjoyed a prodigious variety of sexual pleasures. I mean, what kind of God or Prophet condones and deals in sexual slavery?”
After that we had no communication for several weeks. I had gone too far. Then out of the blue he messaged me and the dialogue resumed. He seemed to be angrier than before.
Ibn Khattab: “It used to be all about the niggers. Now it’s the turn of the Arabs and the Pakis. You lot could not tell the difference between any of us before – till our bredren flew some planes into the towers. Well, now you better get your head around it. We are not just Pakis – we are Arabs, Somalis, Pashtuns, Uzbeks, Chechens, Azeris, Kashmiris, Iranians, Kurds – I could go on. We are Muslims, but we are about as alike as Brits and Russians or Japs.”
“That’s fine, but your point is undermined somewhat by using the N word, don’t you think? Aren’t Somalis niggers?”
“I’ve been called Paki enough time by the Niggers, to earn the right to call them what I fucking well like. Somalis are brothers, Jamaicans are chiefs and beggars – even when they convert they can’t manage to set fire to their own shoes! That was a joke by the way.”
I tried to find out more about Ibn Khattab, but he gave little away. He and his ‘soldiers of Islam’ were evidently living in the UK, probably in East London but possibly Leicester or Luton. There were inklings of time in prison, where he had nursed his resentment toward the niggers, and learned to love their music. Quotes from Tupac Shakur littered his commentary:
“My mama always used to tell me: 'If you can't find somethin' to live for, you best find somethin' to die for.”
I asked him if he thought terrorism on UK soil was justified:
“Of course it is. This is war. The Crusaders have killed countless civilians and never shed a tear for them. Civilians who do not resist this war are legitimate targets.”
“So are you a real jihadist then?”
“What do you mean? Do you mean, would I die for Allah, or to defend Muslims? Of course, if you are a Muslim, you have to be prepared defend your fellow Muslims when they come under attack?”
“That’s more of a theoretical answer.”
“Theoretical bollocks. It’s 100% real. I’m ready to die in defence of Islam. And by the way, this isn’t about creating a Caliphate in Birmingham, like the some of the media are saying. That’s just some bullshit that the Zionist ideologues came up with to scare people. Muslims don’t force conversion. You’ve got to want to become Muslims.”
“That’s not what I read.”
“Well, bro, maybe you read wrong. I’ll give you some references.”
“Much obliged, I love a good read. Have you read What’s Wrong with Islam?”
“What is it?”
“It’s written by a Canadian lesbian Muslim.”
“Ha, you really are having a laugh now bro. You can’t be a carpet muncher and a Muslim. That’s like a vegetarian who eats Big Macs. It just doesn’t work.”
“You may be right but it’s a good book.”
Part of me wanted to actually meet Ibn Khattab and another part of me wanted to stay well away from him and his brothers. I toyed with investigating the whole British Muslim scene and the young discontents who had decided to declare war on their Mother Country, but somehow I had never quite got round to it. Last time I wandered around the back streets of Bethnal Green, some Asian kids in a car drove past shouting “Fucking honky”, and for the first time I experienced what it’s like to be on the end of racial abuse, like all those Asian kids at school who used to get called ‘Paki’ and be beaten up and told they “stunk of curry”.
I was interested in IK’s views on terrorism, in particular 9/11 and 7/7. I asked if he thought Osama bin Laden was behind the World Trade Centre attacks.
“Of course not. If you can step away from all the lies from the Jewish controlled media, you just need to read what he said.”
“It’s not all Jewish controlled.”
“Alright, may be not all of it, but the Kaffirs work for the Zionists. If you want to know what the Emir said, here’s his words:
Link to AP news story, 17 September 2001:
Bin Laden says he wasn't behind attacks
In a statement issued to the Arabic satellite channel Al Jazeera, based in Qatar, bin Laden said, "The U.S. government has consistently blamed me for being behind every occasion its enemies attack it.
"I would like to assure the world that I did not plan the recent attacks, which seems to have been planned by people for personal reasons," bin Laden's statement said.
"I have been living in the Islamic emirate of Afghanistan and following its leaders' rules. The current leader does not allow me to exercise such operations," bin Laden said.
End of link.
“Is that clear enough for you?”
“Criminals often deny their crimes. And anyway, he admitted it on Al Jazeera a few weeks later. He admitted it several times.”
“Those confession videos were faked by the Americans. I mean, look at the one that came out just days before the election in 2004 – making sure Bush won. Look at the nose of the real Bin Laden – and the one in the videos released by the Yanks. Different nose, wider face”
“I don’t know about that. I agree it’s strange – to release a video to help your enemy win an election. But I still think he was behind 9/11. If he wasn’t, he’d have released a video saying the others were fake. He never did. Maybe they were both working for the same goals. Neither wanted peace.”
“Islam is peace. All the Americans had to do was get out of Arabia and stop occupying the Muslim lands. He offered them peace many times but they rejected it.”
“Bin Laden and Bush were both zealots. Bush was a born again Christian. They worshipped the same God. Jesus is a prophet of Islam. And the Jewish prophets were shared too.”
“Yes, that’s right, but the Jewish bible is a how-to guide for stealing land and genocide, written by a homicidal estate agent. I read it once, when I had time to, at Her Majesty’s leisure. Numbers and Deuteronomy tell you everything you need to know about Jewish religion – ‘and thou shalt lend unto many nations, but thou shalt not borrow; and thou shalt reign over many nations, but they shall not reign over thee.’ Pretty much exactly what the jews have done!”
“A manifesto for bankers and colonialism – interesting. Of course, you can find a justification for all kinds of evil in both the Bible and the Quran. I believe the Quran has quite a lot to say about smiting enemies and taking their land and women.”
“The Quran does not hold up any one nation above all the others, with unlimited rights to rule over them.”
“No, it just gives that power to the followers of Muhammed.”
“The Muslims lived in peace with Christian and Jew for centuries before Zionism. Islam lays down rules for peace among the peoples.”
“Unless they happen to be Buddhists or Hindus, in which case they can be killed with impunity.”
“That’s bullshit.”
“What about the Buddhas of Bamyan, blown up by the Taliban?”
“I don’t know about that. I do know Muslims ruled India peacefully for hundred of years. We treated the Hindus a hell of a lot better than they treated us since then.”
We had many interesting discussions about theology, history and the various bloodthirsty and disturbing proclamations of the prophets. But today he said something that made me pause.
“Don’t go into the city. It ain’t safe.”
Sunday, 31 July 2011
Friday, 29 July 2011
Chapter 4: My Family
9.51AM. Text message from Mum to Nick: Horror. Your sister has won tickets to Euro Disney from the back of a rice krispies packet. I have to go with her and kids. HELP!
9.59AM Text message from Nick to Mum:
have fun and say hi to Mickey frm me
Mum was in France with my sister Julia for the holidays. My sister had moved there four years ago to be with her French boyfriend, Roman. She lived in the countryside while he gambled on the internet. He had a PHD from Cambridge and was slightly autistic. Julia used to be a nursery worker, suffered from bouts of depression, and now took in pupils to teach them English. They had two young children, Rene, 4, and Willow, 6. I had visited them twice and they came home for Christmas each year to my mum’s place in Clapham. That meant that I had seen them slightly more often that I had seen my dad, who lived in Spain. My father made very little effort to stay in contact with me. He seemed to think I was somehow responsible for his exile following his separation from my mum when I was 12. It was all very strange, but he bore a grudge from hell for no good reason other than I was not prepared to move to Spain with him. Neither was my sister, who being younger than me, took my lead on the question. He had a Spanish wife now, who liked to drink a great deal of Cava, and was very nice to me when I visited. I think with his new wife he had found someone generous by nature, who did not mind housework, which was exactly the kind of woman he needed for his golden years. That is, a woman quite unlike my mother.
My mother was possibly the most sarcastic person I had ever met. I did not realise this when I was growing up. I thought it was normal to call your son ‘four eyes’ and to tell your daughter that she looked frumpy and should put on some more makeup. The ‘four eyes’ thing meant that even though I was slightly short sighted I almost never wore glasses, although I had reluctantly started using contact lenses, which I kept secret as best as I could. My mother did not feel guilty for not being especially maternal. It was just not really her thing. She loved us all the same, it’s just that she felt everyone was a bit daft and should be put in their place whenever appropriate, and that went for her children too. I suppose I got used to it, until I went to university and realised that this was not how all people were, and that being considerate and thoughtful was actually considered a good thing. Eventually I took some therapy to explore these issues, as they appeared to come between me and every woman I had ever been out with. I had two therapists, but they both disappointed me in some way, for they were all too human themselves. Then again, that was probably the point. They were not there to ‘cure’ me, only to help me realise where my problems lay so that I could begin to resolve them myself. This was a long process, however, and was likely to take many years. At one time I thought the right woman or a glorious career would make my melancholia disappear. I had no such illusions now.
Now I had work to do. I had to file about five stories today, and some analyst calls to chase up. I had a nagging feeling that I had forgotten something important, but I could not place it. I should check my diary, but for some reason, I chose not to. It was probably nothing.
10.04AM Email from Emma Townsend, PA to John Squires:
Hi Nick, Just a reminder about our 12 noon profile interview with John. Please come to the Cucumber building and ask for me at reception and I will come and get you. Let me know if you need anything else.
10.06AM Email to Ms Townsend:
Hi Emma, thanks for getting in touch. All set for the interview and looking forward to it. Did the photographer get in touch? We will need a few shots of John.
10.06AM Email E Townsend to Nick:
Hi Nick, no he didn’t. We do have some photos of John if you would like me to send them over.
10.14AM Nick to Emma: Yes please do.
10.15AM Mental email from Nick to self:
How the fuck did you forget that interview? It must be in your diary….it is, but you have not looked at your diary for over a week. You are lucky as the billionaire and your editor would be mightily pissed off if you’d missed that one.
I had been to the restaurant at the top of the Cucumber once before. It was the setting for my interview with a well-known investment banker. The views were spectacular, the food less so, and the thrill of being high above London under a glass and steel dome seriously undermined by the loud, self-important money men who frequented it. My interviewee had made his first fortune shorting shares in dotcom companies before the end of the first internet boom. He was explaining to me how he did it. There is a lot of jargon around this kind of trade – the put option, the call option, selling a call, a covered call, a naked call, the break even point, the premium, the strike price - and I was doing my feeble best to keep up, scribbling notes and occasionally losing track completely.
At the time we were still in the throws of the big housing bubble, but this precociously rich and balding Nostradamus was telling me that the whole pack of cards was about to collapse. “Nick, do yourself a favour and put your flat on the market today. Don’t wait another minute. It’s a pyramid and only suckers are buying now. The big market players are a step ahead, and they are betting on the Big One.
“What do you mean?” I asked the bald banker.
“Are we off the record? If I read any of this, I’ll deny, deny, deny, say you made it up.” I nodded. “I’m talking about the Big Short. There’s some really cute atom bombs in the collateralized debt market that are all set to go off. It won’t be pretty. Most people are ignoring it, except the really smart players. They’re not talking about it, but they are betting on the collapse of civilisation and they are going to make a lot of money, Nick, more money than you could possibly imagine. Don’t wait Nick. Call the estate agent. Don’t wait another minute.”
It was probably the most important financial tip I had been given and yet, I ignored it. I remember losing my concentration at times, as if I was experiencing something out of body, looking at myself trying to engage with this man who earned in a week what I earned in a year, and thinking, you may be rich, and you are obviously very intelligent but your eyes bulge oddly and you eat with your mouth open. What am I doing here giving you my time and attention? Is this what my life was leading up to? Instead of these soul-searching thoughts, I should have just listened to the priceless advice he was giving me.
9.59AM Text message from Nick to Mum:
have fun and say hi to Mickey frm me
Mum was in France with my sister Julia for the holidays. My sister had moved there four years ago to be with her French boyfriend, Roman. She lived in the countryside while he gambled on the internet. He had a PHD from Cambridge and was slightly autistic. Julia used to be a nursery worker, suffered from bouts of depression, and now took in pupils to teach them English. They had two young children, Rene, 4, and Willow, 6. I had visited them twice and they came home for Christmas each year to my mum’s place in Clapham. That meant that I had seen them slightly more often that I had seen my dad, who lived in Spain. My father made very little effort to stay in contact with me. He seemed to think I was somehow responsible for his exile following his separation from my mum when I was 12. It was all very strange, but he bore a grudge from hell for no good reason other than I was not prepared to move to Spain with him. Neither was my sister, who being younger than me, took my lead on the question. He had a Spanish wife now, who liked to drink a great deal of Cava, and was very nice to me when I visited. I think with his new wife he had found someone generous by nature, who did not mind housework, which was exactly the kind of woman he needed for his golden years. That is, a woman quite unlike my mother.
My mother was possibly the most sarcastic person I had ever met. I did not realise this when I was growing up. I thought it was normal to call your son ‘four eyes’ and to tell your daughter that she looked frumpy and should put on some more makeup. The ‘four eyes’ thing meant that even though I was slightly short sighted I almost never wore glasses, although I had reluctantly started using contact lenses, which I kept secret as best as I could. My mother did not feel guilty for not being especially maternal. It was just not really her thing. She loved us all the same, it’s just that she felt everyone was a bit daft and should be put in their place whenever appropriate, and that went for her children too. I suppose I got used to it, until I went to university and realised that this was not how all people were, and that being considerate and thoughtful was actually considered a good thing. Eventually I took some therapy to explore these issues, as they appeared to come between me and every woman I had ever been out with. I had two therapists, but they both disappointed me in some way, for they were all too human themselves. Then again, that was probably the point. They were not there to ‘cure’ me, only to help me realise where my problems lay so that I could begin to resolve them myself. This was a long process, however, and was likely to take many years. At one time I thought the right woman or a glorious career would make my melancholia disappear. I had no such illusions now.
Now I had work to do. I had to file about five stories today, and some analyst calls to chase up. I had a nagging feeling that I had forgotten something important, but I could not place it. I should check my diary, but for some reason, I chose not to. It was probably nothing.
10.04AM Email from Emma Townsend, PA to John Squires:
Hi Nick, Just a reminder about our 12 noon profile interview with John. Please come to the Cucumber building and ask for me at reception and I will come and get you. Let me know if you need anything else.
10.06AM Email to Ms Townsend:
Hi Emma, thanks for getting in touch. All set for the interview and looking forward to it. Did the photographer get in touch? We will need a few shots of John.
10.06AM Email E Townsend to Nick:
Hi Nick, no he didn’t. We do have some photos of John if you would like me to send them over.
10.14AM Nick to Emma: Yes please do.
10.15AM Mental email from Nick to self:
How the fuck did you forget that interview? It must be in your diary….it is, but you have not looked at your diary for over a week. You are lucky as the billionaire and your editor would be mightily pissed off if you’d missed that one.
I had been to the restaurant at the top of the Cucumber once before. It was the setting for my interview with a well-known investment banker. The views were spectacular, the food less so, and the thrill of being high above London under a glass and steel dome seriously undermined by the loud, self-important money men who frequented it. My interviewee had made his first fortune shorting shares in dotcom companies before the end of the first internet boom. He was explaining to me how he did it. There is a lot of jargon around this kind of trade – the put option, the call option, selling a call, a covered call, a naked call, the break even point, the premium, the strike price - and I was doing my feeble best to keep up, scribbling notes and occasionally losing track completely.
At the time we were still in the throws of the big housing bubble, but this precociously rich and balding Nostradamus was telling me that the whole pack of cards was about to collapse. “Nick, do yourself a favour and put your flat on the market today. Don’t wait another minute. It’s a pyramid and only suckers are buying now. The big market players are a step ahead, and they are betting on the Big One.
“What do you mean?” I asked the bald banker.
“Are we off the record? If I read any of this, I’ll deny, deny, deny, say you made it up.” I nodded. “I’m talking about the Big Short. There’s some really cute atom bombs in the collateralized debt market that are all set to go off. It won’t be pretty. Most people are ignoring it, except the really smart players. They’re not talking about it, but they are betting on the collapse of civilisation and they are going to make a lot of money, Nick, more money than you could possibly imagine. Don’t wait Nick. Call the estate agent. Don’t wait another minute.”
It was probably the most important financial tip I had been given and yet, I ignored it. I remember losing my concentration at times, as if I was experiencing something out of body, looking at myself trying to engage with this man who earned in a week what I earned in a year, and thinking, you may be rich, and you are obviously very intelligent but your eyes bulge oddly and you eat with your mouth open. What am I doing here giving you my time and attention? Is this what my life was leading up to? Instead of these soul-searching thoughts, I should have just listened to the priceless advice he was giving me.
Wednesday, 27 July 2011
Chapter 3: The Jihadist
My laboratory is a cramped office with its atmosphere made stale by air conditioning and the perspiration and perfume of hundreds of sedentary human beings, and their packed lunches which they eat at their computers because there is no canteen. Some bring in curries or sandwiches from M&S. Cleaners from Colombia, Peru and Somalia come round in the early hours and at dusk to clean the carpets and empty the bins. The windows are mostly sealed shut. Those that are not, such as in the men’s toilets, carry warning notices declaring: “DO NOT OPEN THE WINDOWS”. If you did open the windows, you could hear the traffic and the police sirens of the City, the relentless hum of a metropolis in constant movement. That movement was required so that the circulation of capital could continue. If it were ever to stop, perhaps because of some natural or man-made catastrophe, the consequences would be unimaginable. The noise and the movement were as essential as the buzzing of insects and the munching of leaves and the tearing of flesh in nature. This was our own man-made jungle. Of course, we believed we were different than the beasts and the insects, we had evolved toward freedom and consciousness. We were in the age of market democracy, each masters of our own destiny. But how could that possibly be true? Sons of politicians became politicians, daughters of monarchs became monarchs, sons of rock stars became rock stars, sons of lawyers became lawyers and sons of labourers became drug dealers.
Unlike the queen, worker and soldier ants, we did not look obviously different from one another and we were genetically indistinguishable. But to each other we were subtly but unmistakably divided into discreet species, living parallel, separate lives. As it was before, so it is now. Our parents bought their houses when they were cheap. We waited until they died so that we could get our hands on their money and property, or we married someone who had the good fortune to inherit early. Or we got onto a council house waiting list. As it was before, so it is now. Freedom is to choose supermarkets and TV channels. True freedom – from bosses, the state, banks and landlords -- that belongs to the very rich and the very poor. The rest of us are like the moths buzzing around a light bulb all the while failing to realise that the hot blinding glass is not, as we imagine, a gateway to freedom, but a dead end, a false moon. Like the moth we are genetically programmed to keep flapping our wings and bouncing against the smooth, impenetrable glass. To stop would mean madness or death.
When I started out as a budding reporter I believed that I could use my position to expose injustice and reveal the truth to the world. I was given the opportunity when a few years back I had been assigned to investigate a dodgy financial services company. It all went well, and my story pleased the editor very much. I held the front page and imagined the financial sector trembling as they picked up their copy of The Financier. Even the chief executive of our publishing house dropped me a complementary email on my sterling work. I could feel the laurels caressing my scalp, that is, until the real-life subject of the articles read them and issued a threat of legal action. One small error in my front-page expose undid me. I was always a little bit too eager to file my copy and I sometimes found all the checking of the details both tiresome and overwhelming. This was my Achilles’ heel – except I was no Achilles. The financial director who I had exposed as a crook, who cheated his clients and his employees, had found the flaw in my copy he needed to undo me and the rest of my work. My editor decided to print an apology and hang me out to dry. That was the end of my dream of being an intrepid investigative reporter. From now on I would play it safe and stick to harmless business profiles and press release rewrites.
There were two kinds of really good reporters that I had encountered in my time – first, the weasel, the kind who snuffled around in the garbage of his or her beat, searching for small morsels of information. These weasels often had sharp features, a snout-like face and tended to be shortsighted from spending so much time peering into dark corners. They were relentless and determined and no detail was too dull for them to pick apart for tasty morsels or first-to-the-wire scoops.
Then there were the heroic correspondent types, the warriors for truth. They tended to have soldierly virtues, being brave and combative. They were best suited to report on wars and crime; they could mix company with rough sorts, soldiers and policeman, and head off to the world’s danger spots. They drank and had emotional problems. Unfortunately, I was neither of these. I was now your classic corporate reporter, the third and least admirable breed of hack. I was on friendly terms with the subjects, the PRs and generally good at quaffing the wine and eating the freebie breakfasts and flirting with the PAs. I belonged in the trade press, where 90% of journalists lived a life of unglamorous desk-bound toil. This middling sort did not resemble the legendary reporters known to screen and fiction, since their subjects were too dull for a writer of fiction to bother with. I suffered the frailties of both sorts and enjoyed the virtues of neither, being somewhat weasel-like in appearance, with a growing realisation that I was shortsighted and needed to wear glasses. I was more Clark Kent than Superman. Of course, at times I considered myself an Adonis and lady killer, as long as I stayed away from mirrors and listened to my mother when she had had a drink or two and was feeling affectionate towards me.
Through lack of dedication and seriousness, we workaday corporate hacks were perhaps stumbling and failing to spot magnificent scoops on corporate malfeasance every day. Ever so occasionally, a genuinely interesting story would come to us, by pure accident or because somebody decided to do you a favour and use you to get to someone else, to make you their tribune for truth even though you were nothing of the sort. Even then, the truly mediocre reporter might miss the huge steaming turd of a story that had been handed to them. Perhaps today, one of those bits of rank good fortune would come my way.
9.06AM. Check MyFace to see if my jihadi friend Ibn Khattab, more of whom later, has dropped me a line. He has.
Msg from Ibn Khattab to Nick Day:
Good morning Nick. Today is a good day, my friend. It appears that both God and the Devil are taking revenge on the unbelievers. First the volcano, then the righteous blow against the Jewish Banking Thief. Believe me, this is just the beginning….
9.11AM Me to IK:
Well, I wouldn’t read too much into it. Remember, capitalism survived the credit crunch and it will definitely survive the absence of Mr Magdoff. As for the volcano, that could be serious but I don’t think God or the Devil has anything to do with it. Iceland is like the spout of a teapot that is constantly boiling. It’s always letting off steam. To think it’s got anything to do with Magdoff getting shot is a fairy story. Your team lost last night I see – and against Fulham – was that also the work of God?
9.13AM Ibn Khattab:
It’s easy to mock. The true Muslims are like that volcano, we are at one with God and his mysteries, and when God is angered, it comes out in the world. We are the living volcano, the instrument of His wrath. And we have cause. The Muslims are fighting the crusaders because it is their duty to defend their fellow Muslims against years of aggression by the west. We will take the fight to him, as the crusader has taken it to us in our lands and homes, among our women and children.
9.21AM Nick to Ibn Khattab:
IK, I am not a supporter of the Middle East wars. I did not support the invasion of Iraq even though Saddam was a world-class bastard who deserved to be brought down. Bush and his cronies were almost as bad. Still this argument is tired and has been rehearsed over and over again. Can’t we talk about something else?
9.22AM. IK to Nick
Did you watch Z List last night? What a bunch of talentless, desperate idiots. I voted for Smudge, as at least they had a few good moves. Keep watching the news bro.
9.23AM. Nick to IK.
No I didn’t watch Z List. I always watch the news my friend.
Ibn Khattab is a jihadi I ‘met’ in a forum on the WhoWasReallyBehind911.com website. I say jihadi, but to be honest I don’t really know who he is other than he claims to be a Kashmiri who was born in Lahore and moved to Britain when he was eight. For all I know he is just a sad fantasist, although he does seem to know quite a lot about explosives, aircraft technology and Pakistani politics. He introduced me to the struggle in Kashmir, which I knew nothing about. “India has killed 80,000 people in Kashmir but somehow that doesn’t count because Kashmiris are just Muslims. If only we were Buddhists, like in Tibet, then the world would do something about it.”
I started looking at jihadi websites after 7/7, when I was going through a bout of insomnia and began to take an interest in alternative theories about 9/11 and terrorism. It was a low patch and I was looking for answers. I had turned 30 and the girl who I thought I would spend the rest of my life with had left me. It was as if all my plans and dreams of a future mapped out before me had turned to sand. All I had left was the job, and then, after my errors at The Financier had been exposed, that part of the dream also crumbled. I was mystified and, in turn, angry at the unexpected twists to my life journey. A dead end reared up in front of me. For the first time in my thirty years, I had to face the possibility of failure. The illusion of progress through the stages of life toward the sunny uplands could not hold. I stared into the grey distance, and looked around at all the ashen faces on the streets and thought, I am one of them. One of the countless invisibles, the people whose lives did not merit the world’s interest, or their neighbours. They existed, they shopped, they slept, they worked, and, if they were lucky, they fucked. When hope begins to die, or a quiet disaster strikes, one looks for an explanation. Perhaps that was what drew me toward conspiracy theories and the apocalyptic visions of destruction that swirled around the internet and burst daily from the TV screens, from the places of horror in Iraq and other distant lands. Reap what you sew, said the jihadists on 7/7. I was repulsed and yet attracted. Surely anything was preferable to complacency and indifference to the suffering of others. I did not really voice this sense of disquiet and fury. But I sought out those who did. And I found IK.
Unlike the queen, worker and soldier ants, we did not look obviously different from one another and we were genetically indistinguishable. But to each other we were subtly but unmistakably divided into discreet species, living parallel, separate lives. As it was before, so it is now. Our parents bought their houses when they were cheap. We waited until they died so that we could get our hands on their money and property, or we married someone who had the good fortune to inherit early. Or we got onto a council house waiting list. As it was before, so it is now. Freedom is to choose supermarkets and TV channels. True freedom – from bosses, the state, banks and landlords -- that belongs to the very rich and the very poor. The rest of us are like the moths buzzing around a light bulb all the while failing to realise that the hot blinding glass is not, as we imagine, a gateway to freedom, but a dead end, a false moon. Like the moth we are genetically programmed to keep flapping our wings and bouncing against the smooth, impenetrable glass. To stop would mean madness or death.
When I started out as a budding reporter I believed that I could use my position to expose injustice and reveal the truth to the world. I was given the opportunity when a few years back I had been assigned to investigate a dodgy financial services company. It all went well, and my story pleased the editor very much. I held the front page and imagined the financial sector trembling as they picked up their copy of The Financier. Even the chief executive of our publishing house dropped me a complementary email on my sterling work. I could feel the laurels caressing my scalp, that is, until the real-life subject of the articles read them and issued a threat of legal action. One small error in my front-page expose undid me. I was always a little bit too eager to file my copy and I sometimes found all the checking of the details both tiresome and overwhelming. This was my Achilles’ heel – except I was no Achilles. The financial director who I had exposed as a crook, who cheated his clients and his employees, had found the flaw in my copy he needed to undo me and the rest of my work. My editor decided to print an apology and hang me out to dry. That was the end of my dream of being an intrepid investigative reporter. From now on I would play it safe and stick to harmless business profiles and press release rewrites.
There were two kinds of really good reporters that I had encountered in my time – first, the weasel, the kind who snuffled around in the garbage of his or her beat, searching for small morsels of information. These weasels often had sharp features, a snout-like face and tended to be shortsighted from spending so much time peering into dark corners. They were relentless and determined and no detail was too dull for them to pick apart for tasty morsels or first-to-the-wire scoops.
Then there were the heroic correspondent types, the warriors for truth. They tended to have soldierly virtues, being brave and combative. They were best suited to report on wars and crime; they could mix company with rough sorts, soldiers and policeman, and head off to the world’s danger spots. They drank and had emotional problems. Unfortunately, I was neither of these. I was now your classic corporate reporter, the third and least admirable breed of hack. I was on friendly terms with the subjects, the PRs and generally good at quaffing the wine and eating the freebie breakfasts and flirting with the PAs. I belonged in the trade press, where 90% of journalists lived a life of unglamorous desk-bound toil. This middling sort did not resemble the legendary reporters known to screen and fiction, since their subjects were too dull for a writer of fiction to bother with. I suffered the frailties of both sorts and enjoyed the virtues of neither, being somewhat weasel-like in appearance, with a growing realisation that I was shortsighted and needed to wear glasses. I was more Clark Kent than Superman. Of course, at times I considered myself an Adonis and lady killer, as long as I stayed away from mirrors and listened to my mother when she had had a drink or two and was feeling affectionate towards me.
Through lack of dedication and seriousness, we workaday corporate hacks were perhaps stumbling and failing to spot magnificent scoops on corporate malfeasance every day. Ever so occasionally, a genuinely interesting story would come to us, by pure accident or because somebody decided to do you a favour and use you to get to someone else, to make you their tribune for truth even though you were nothing of the sort. Even then, the truly mediocre reporter might miss the huge steaming turd of a story that had been handed to them. Perhaps today, one of those bits of rank good fortune would come my way.
9.06AM. Check MyFace to see if my jihadi friend Ibn Khattab, more of whom later, has dropped me a line. He has.
Msg from Ibn Khattab to Nick Day:
Good morning Nick. Today is a good day, my friend. It appears that both God and the Devil are taking revenge on the unbelievers. First the volcano, then the righteous blow against the Jewish Banking Thief. Believe me, this is just the beginning….
9.11AM Me to IK:
Well, I wouldn’t read too much into it. Remember, capitalism survived the credit crunch and it will definitely survive the absence of Mr Magdoff. As for the volcano, that could be serious but I don’t think God or the Devil has anything to do with it. Iceland is like the spout of a teapot that is constantly boiling. It’s always letting off steam. To think it’s got anything to do with Magdoff getting shot is a fairy story. Your team lost last night I see – and against Fulham – was that also the work of God?
9.13AM Ibn Khattab:
It’s easy to mock. The true Muslims are like that volcano, we are at one with God and his mysteries, and when God is angered, it comes out in the world. We are the living volcano, the instrument of His wrath. And we have cause. The Muslims are fighting the crusaders because it is their duty to defend their fellow Muslims against years of aggression by the west. We will take the fight to him, as the crusader has taken it to us in our lands and homes, among our women and children.
9.21AM Nick to Ibn Khattab:
IK, I am not a supporter of the Middle East wars. I did not support the invasion of Iraq even though Saddam was a world-class bastard who deserved to be brought down. Bush and his cronies were almost as bad. Still this argument is tired and has been rehearsed over and over again. Can’t we talk about something else?
9.22AM. IK to Nick
Did you watch Z List last night? What a bunch of talentless, desperate idiots. I voted for Smudge, as at least they had a few good moves. Keep watching the news bro.
9.23AM. Nick to IK.
No I didn’t watch Z List. I always watch the news my friend.
Ibn Khattab is a jihadi I ‘met’ in a forum on the WhoWasReallyBehind911.com website. I say jihadi, but to be honest I don’t really know who he is other than he claims to be a Kashmiri who was born in Lahore and moved to Britain when he was eight. For all I know he is just a sad fantasist, although he does seem to know quite a lot about explosives, aircraft technology and Pakistani politics. He introduced me to the struggle in Kashmir, which I knew nothing about. “India has killed 80,000 people in Kashmir but somehow that doesn’t count because Kashmiris are just Muslims. If only we were Buddhists, like in Tibet, then the world would do something about it.”
I started looking at jihadi websites after 7/7, when I was going through a bout of insomnia and began to take an interest in alternative theories about 9/11 and terrorism. It was a low patch and I was looking for answers. I had turned 30 and the girl who I thought I would spend the rest of my life with had left me. It was as if all my plans and dreams of a future mapped out before me had turned to sand. All I had left was the job, and then, after my errors at The Financier had been exposed, that part of the dream also crumbled. I was mystified and, in turn, angry at the unexpected twists to my life journey. A dead end reared up in front of me. For the first time in my thirty years, I had to face the possibility of failure. The illusion of progress through the stages of life toward the sunny uplands could not hold. I stared into the grey distance, and looked around at all the ashen faces on the streets and thought, I am one of them. One of the countless invisibles, the people whose lives did not merit the world’s interest, or their neighbours. They existed, they shopped, they slept, they worked, and, if they were lucky, they fucked. When hope begins to die, or a quiet disaster strikes, one looks for an explanation. Perhaps that was what drew me toward conspiracy theories and the apocalyptic visions of destruction that swirled around the internet and burst daily from the TV screens, from the places of horror in Iraq and other distant lands. Reap what you sew, said the jihadists on 7/7. I was repulsed and yet attracted. Surely anything was preferable to complacency and indifference to the suffering of others. I did not really voice this sense of disquiet and fury. But I sought out those who did. And I found IK.
Saturday, 23 July 2011
Chapter 2: The Banker
7.55AM Catch Tube at Holloway Road. I notice a higher than usual preponderance of very pretty East Asian and East European girls using iPods or MP3 players. My Law of Good-looking-Girls-Will-Have-iPods is once again reaffirmed. The iPod is a piece of armoury used by attractive younger women to ward off unwanted and random advances. It is the modern western equivalent of the veil. It makes the wearer more aloof and remote and who can blame them? Today I am listening to Rousseau’s Confessions as read by Gerard Depardieu. My French is not what it used to be but the effect is pleasing. I look across at a girl, perhaps Finnish or Icelandic – her hair is ash blonde and her features pointy and vaguely Asiatic despite her snow-like complexion. She is the ash princess. While listening to Gerard I imagine myself in wig, ruffle and waistcoat, in an altogether different kind of carriage, with only Olga and myself being thrown from side to side and the sound of tube on tracks replaced by wheels clattering on cobbles. New technology can be the key to escaping the hi-tech era if used imaginatively. I put Gerard on pause temporarily and above the din of the moving tube can just about perceive that Olga is listening to some kind of thrash metal, which in hindsight should have been obvious considering her all-black designer punk attire and cool to moody frozen expression. Just the kind of girl I doubt I could ever fuck, and all the more suited to my harmless attention. I imagine us together flying into the volcano with Wagner blasting on her headphones. She is the daughter of Vulcan, and he has been a metal fan since at least the Vikings.
8.43AM Arrive at Fenchurch Street and make my way to the office. The digital news screen at the station shows pictures of the volcano, followed by images from a crime scene with American police milling around, and a mug shot of an infamous banker, Harvey Magdoff, chairman of Moneybank. ‘Bank chief shot, critical’, says the headline. I am surprised it has taken this long. Magdoff was the most notorious banker in a nest of notorious bankers. I once worked for the magazine The Financier as a junior reporter, in the days before the Great Crash. I used to interview people like Magdoff, and write fawning profiles on overpaid suits who worked in huge glass towers in the City, and lived in big Georgian houses in the country or in those Thames-side apartments built in the 1980s. Magdoff had been charged with financial fraud along with his firm a few months back for doing something that was considered perfectly legitimate only a couple of years back. The official investigation was due to begin this week, with a Congressional panel calling witnesses to give testimony, including Magdoff himself. Who had shot him was not clear. What was clear was that the investigation and any subsequent trial would have to be postponed, perhaps indefinitely.
This had very little to do with me, except indirectly, in that I had lost several thousand pounds in the crash after foolishly trying my hand at playing the markets. And my flat in Holloway was worth something less than the price I paid for it since the subprime crisis burst the property bubble like a naughty child with a balloon and a pin. I had at times fantasised about shooting bankers, but the only gun I had ever fired was in a computer game called Grand Theft Auto IV. In truth I preferred games with swords or rusty Colt 45s than the usual shoot’em ups, and I had sold my Xbox as part of my economy drive and my efforts to start living a purer, simpler life.
8.58AM. Buy an Americano at Leo’s. It’s not actually called Leo’s but I call it that, as Leo, a Romanian who pretends to be Italian, is the main reason I go there. Leo makes out like we are lovers, and is relentlessly playful and cheeky. He always makes pointed references to my editor, Max; by suggesting he is sexually attracted to me. I play along and allow him to rib me. When I first encountered Leo I did not appreciate his game and became defensive. I realised later this was futile and, as long as you played along, it was actually quite enjoyable. Leo’s attitude to life seemed to be psychologically very healthy. He did his job well, and he did not take life too seriously. His boss was a tiresome, humourless nag, but Leo did not let it get to him, being subtly subversive in a way that his boss was too boneheaded to register. I had much to learn from Leo. I could see how his juvenile innuendos at the expense of his regulars were an act of love; they forced us out of our protective shells and compelled us to engage with his banter. All were equal under Leo’s deprecating fire and only fools would take umbrage when he asked you, smirking with eyebrows raised, if you would like a sausage with your egg mayo bagel. "Come on, I know you like the sausage."
8.43AM Arrive at Fenchurch Street and make my way to the office. The digital news screen at the station shows pictures of the volcano, followed by images from a crime scene with American police milling around, and a mug shot of an infamous banker, Harvey Magdoff, chairman of Moneybank. ‘Bank chief shot, critical’, says the headline. I am surprised it has taken this long. Magdoff was the most notorious banker in a nest of notorious bankers. I once worked for the magazine The Financier as a junior reporter, in the days before the Great Crash. I used to interview people like Magdoff, and write fawning profiles on overpaid suits who worked in huge glass towers in the City, and lived in big Georgian houses in the country or in those Thames-side apartments built in the 1980s. Magdoff had been charged with financial fraud along with his firm a few months back for doing something that was considered perfectly legitimate only a couple of years back. The official investigation was due to begin this week, with a Congressional panel calling witnesses to give testimony, including Magdoff himself. Who had shot him was not clear. What was clear was that the investigation and any subsequent trial would have to be postponed, perhaps indefinitely.
This had very little to do with me, except indirectly, in that I had lost several thousand pounds in the crash after foolishly trying my hand at playing the markets. And my flat in Holloway was worth something less than the price I paid for it since the subprime crisis burst the property bubble like a naughty child with a balloon and a pin. I had at times fantasised about shooting bankers, but the only gun I had ever fired was in a computer game called Grand Theft Auto IV. In truth I preferred games with swords or rusty Colt 45s than the usual shoot’em ups, and I had sold my Xbox as part of my economy drive and my efforts to start living a purer, simpler life.
8.58AM. Buy an Americano at Leo’s. It’s not actually called Leo’s but I call it that, as Leo, a Romanian who pretends to be Italian, is the main reason I go there. Leo makes out like we are lovers, and is relentlessly playful and cheeky. He always makes pointed references to my editor, Max; by suggesting he is sexually attracted to me. I play along and allow him to rib me. When I first encountered Leo I did not appreciate his game and became defensive. I realised later this was futile and, as long as you played along, it was actually quite enjoyable. Leo’s attitude to life seemed to be psychologically very healthy. He did his job well, and he did not take life too seriously. His boss was a tiresome, humourless nag, but Leo did not let it get to him, being subtly subversive in a way that his boss was too boneheaded to register. I had much to learn from Leo. I could see how his juvenile innuendos at the expense of his regulars were an act of love; they forced us out of our protective shells and compelled us to engage with his banter. All were equal under Leo’s deprecating fire and only fools would take umbrage when he asked you, smirking with eyebrows raised, if you would like a sausage with your egg mayo bagel. "Come on, I know you like the sausage."
Friday, 22 July 2011
Chapter 1: Night, August 8th.
3.43AM. I live close to a thunderous main road. Hulking lorries roar along it through the night, making my bedroom window shake. They hurtle around the city’s arteries in ceaseless circulation, like an army of ghouls sent to torment sleepless souls. If this background rumble were not enough to disturb me, the night is punctuated by the demented shouts of the drunk and deranged, and the mournful wail of police cars chasing ghosts through the streets. Then, quite suddenly, all this fades to silence. For one brief moment, I can enjoy tranquility, the promise of golden sleep. All remains quiet - until something cries out. It is this yelp, strangulated and primal, that pulls me into consciousness. I am now reluctantly awake, but a lead weight behind my eyes tells me that I have not really slept. Sleep remains a stranger, hidden in some remote place as distant as childhood.
At first I imagine that the scream is that of a baby being murdered. Then, as my conscious mind ushers aside the wanderings of my unchained id, I realise that it is, in fact, the foxes at play in the garden. Still, my rationally attuned ear finds the mating cry of the fox to be uncomfortably like that of a mortally distressed infant; worse, I know I will almost certainly not get back to sleep until daybreak. I get out of bed and go over to the window to see if I can spy the night gypsies amusing themselves on the lawn.
The moon is out and I can’t see the stars for clouds. Even if it was a clear, moonless night I would not be able to see more than a handful of stars because this is London, and the firmament of the city drowns out the light of the heavens. I point skyward and focus on the nail on my index finder, knowing that behind it lie 10,000 galaxies, each containing an average of 100 billion stars. These improbable, unimaginable numbers contain in them the facts of our insignificance – the knowledge of which, once grasped, takes away a small part of my own self-absorption, and the hopeless fixation on the petty frustrations of my life. I find it comforting to think that, obscured by the blanket of electric light that we live under, there is a Universe teaming with countless stars and planets, in which all the light produced on our tiny and densely populated world is wholly invisible. We do not register at the scale of the Universe, or the Milky Way, and only the equivalent of a particle physicist using the most advanced equipment would be able to detect us at a distance. From space, we are invisible and undetectable, silent despite all the noise we make.
The vastness of space makes me remember that I am part of something far, far more majestic than my own brief and inconsequential existence. When the prophets of old looked up in the desert they saw a brilliant canopy, the face of God, but from my window that face is obscured by London’s brash fluorescence. Unlike the prophets I do not perceive an intelligent creative force in the Universe, just the inkling of a mysterious beneficence. Millions have discovered this force through the ages, using prayer and submission to higher powers, however capricious and apparently random. It sounds very New Age, and perhaps it is. It does not rule out the possibility of cruel fate coming along and crushing you without reason. It accepts this as the will of the Universe, that there is an interstellar, quantum bus waiting for each of us. If you fall under it, it’s not your fault. And if you don’t, and several non-lethal ones come along instead, remember to thank the stars.
Looking down I see the fox’s reflective disks locking on to me. They are lit by some fierce inner power source, feral lazers that hold me in their unwavering gaze. Then something turns her head and she scampers into the undergrowth.
6.30 AM. I get up after failing, as predicted, to get back to sleep. I take a shower. I consider masturbation but decide against it as time is limited and I wish to preserve my chi. Masturbation can lead to spiritual dissipation and, in its aftermath, an unsettling feeling of having succumbed to a private and selfish urge. However it was my most reliable and consistent sexual relationship, even though it became less satisfying the longer it had been since the real thing. My catalogue of ex-girlfriends and the various girls who’ve given me the ‘look’ – it’s not a long list - seems to have dwindled down to Ex Numero 3, Claudette, and I am tired of having to share the shower and my empty bed with her. She has served me well since we parted ways three years ago but she does need a rest from her conjugal duties. True, I am lonely. It is a loneliness of the body and the spirit. It is strange, really, that the more people there are around you, the more lonely you feel. I think of loneliness, and its bedfellow anxiety, as my most loyal companions in the city. The lonely are many here. The crowdedness, the relentless pace, the fierce battle for time and space and social status, the struggle to get from place to place, to make appointments, to make enough money to live, all these things conspire against companionship, and those precious moments of care-free happiness. London is a great big sucking machine, it hulks over and feeds off its inhabitants, as if a giant invisible space vampire has landed here, feeding on a hapless army of millions, which it voraciously turns into zombies.
6.50 AM. I listen to the news and hear that the Icelandic volcano is spewing out a huge cloud of gas, which northerly winds are bringing our way. Flights will be disrupted and civilisation as we know it perhaps brought to a shuddering halt. Nature’s little reminder of whose boss. I quickly compute all the people I know who are currently out of the country and might be caught up in this ash crisis. The figures are alarmingly high. How is it that at least half the people that matter to me in my life are spread across the world? I must be part of the jet set, even if it is a more of a sub-set, the Economy Set. Perhaps that is how it is now in this rich nation of ours, more and more of us are no longer living on earth, but are suspended in flying tubes eating reheated and overpriced bacon rolls; at least until the ash comes along like a divine clamping unit and grounds us.
7.26 AM. Arrive at Oasis Swimming Pool, Covent Garden, for morning swim. Swimming allows me to think and to meditate. The changing area is predictably cramped and busy. This is central London and every inch is expensive real estate. This means getting up close and personal with a range of nationalities and body types. Just as breasts come in an infinite variety of shapes and forms, so do the intimate parts of the male anatomy. There are always the well endowed who take an inordinate amount of time to get changed, and appear to take great pleasure in leisurely displaying their assets and thereby establish their physical superiority to the rest of the gym. What a difference an inch can make in the male social hierarchy.
My pleasure at the pool is also undermined by the difficult cultural interplay and the primitive displays of machismo that take place both in the changing rooms and in the water. There is the muscular Russian gangster type who, although only in underpants, cannot put down his mobile phone. He takes one call then makes another and he does not cut any of these conversations short. They are all obviously very important and best conducted in tight pants. The Russian speaks gruffly and swaggers around the changing area, preening in the mirror and flexing his overgrown muscles. When I look in the mirror I see a scrawny figure, muscles on the arms barely discernable, my chest of the pigeon variety. I can see a few of my ribs, which at least means I am not overweight, but there is no sign of a washboard. My mousey straight hair on my head needs a cut and there are signs of receding in the corners of the temple where the parting lines end. I cover these over with a brush of my hand. Despite awareness of how puny I seem compared to my Russian friend, like most men I still harbour pretensions of masculinity, even if I have neglected it in my desk- and sofa-bound existence.
In the water I am just getting into my stride, using the middle lane, when somebody cuts me up on my inside to overtake me. In central London there are a lot of global professionals, part of the new ethnographic and economic life of the city. Some of them treat the pool like an exchange floor without the pinstripes. At the end of one length I turned to begin the next, moving into the anticlockwise lane, when I collide with someone. I stand up and see the swimmer turn and stare at me, if you can stare when you are wearing goggles and speedos.
“Watch out, stay in your own lane, ” he says. I stand speechless. If you cannot see someone’s eyes then you cannot gauge enough about them to make a judgement call on how to gauge your own response. Having made his point, he shrugs then turns and continues swimming before I can say anything. I felt like an unwanted guest in this upstart’s private pool. The anger rises up inside but I have nowhere to put it, and besides, swimmers look very alike with hair cap and goggles.
A young male lifeguard interjects: “Wow, it’s getting hot in here this morning. People just need to chill.” He smiles at me and I smile back. The spiritual path means not rising to all the provocations that life throws at you. I use the swim to exorcise the tension that the incident had burnished in me. Why should I care? London is full of testosterone-breathing, SUV-driving, dick-swinging geezers who came to the city to make ‘bizniz’ and act like they are Scarface or Gordon Geckov from Novosibirsk, buying up properties in Chelsea and building swimming pools in the basement. This ugliness is the logical conclusion of a culture that embraces the global moneymen and spivs without prejudice, like a blank-faced Berwick Street whore (she too was recently imported, globalised flesh). In the West End there was no sign of a new spirit of modesty or accommodation to the sensitivities of others. The swimming pool was not for the real money anyway, as it was a public pool for people who could not afford to join the swish private gym next door. These were just wannabes. But they acted like they were money. The recession had not changed that. If anything, it had just injected a note of desperation into proceedings. I imagined seizing my pool companion by the ears and smashing his skull into the smooth ceramic edge of the pool. Momentarily I felt better.
At first I imagine that the scream is that of a baby being murdered. Then, as my conscious mind ushers aside the wanderings of my unchained id, I realise that it is, in fact, the foxes at play in the garden. Still, my rationally attuned ear finds the mating cry of the fox to be uncomfortably like that of a mortally distressed infant; worse, I know I will almost certainly not get back to sleep until daybreak. I get out of bed and go over to the window to see if I can spy the night gypsies amusing themselves on the lawn.
The moon is out and I can’t see the stars for clouds. Even if it was a clear, moonless night I would not be able to see more than a handful of stars because this is London, and the firmament of the city drowns out the light of the heavens. I point skyward and focus on the nail on my index finder, knowing that behind it lie 10,000 galaxies, each containing an average of 100 billion stars. These improbable, unimaginable numbers contain in them the facts of our insignificance – the knowledge of which, once grasped, takes away a small part of my own self-absorption, and the hopeless fixation on the petty frustrations of my life. I find it comforting to think that, obscured by the blanket of electric light that we live under, there is a Universe teaming with countless stars and planets, in which all the light produced on our tiny and densely populated world is wholly invisible. We do not register at the scale of the Universe, or the Milky Way, and only the equivalent of a particle physicist using the most advanced equipment would be able to detect us at a distance. From space, we are invisible and undetectable, silent despite all the noise we make.
The vastness of space makes me remember that I am part of something far, far more majestic than my own brief and inconsequential existence. When the prophets of old looked up in the desert they saw a brilliant canopy, the face of God, but from my window that face is obscured by London’s brash fluorescence. Unlike the prophets I do not perceive an intelligent creative force in the Universe, just the inkling of a mysterious beneficence. Millions have discovered this force through the ages, using prayer and submission to higher powers, however capricious and apparently random. It sounds very New Age, and perhaps it is. It does not rule out the possibility of cruel fate coming along and crushing you without reason. It accepts this as the will of the Universe, that there is an interstellar, quantum bus waiting for each of us. If you fall under it, it’s not your fault. And if you don’t, and several non-lethal ones come along instead, remember to thank the stars.
Looking down I see the fox’s reflective disks locking on to me. They are lit by some fierce inner power source, feral lazers that hold me in their unwavering gaze. Then something turns her head and she scampers into the undergrowth.
6.30 AM. I get up after failing, as predicted, to get back to sleep. I take a shower. I consider masturbation but decide against it as time is limited and I wish to preserve my chi. Masturbation can lead to spiritual dissipation and, in its aftermath, an unsettling feeling of having succumbed to a private and selfish urge. However it was my most reliable and consistent sexual relationship, even though it became less satisfying the longer it had been since the real thing. My catalogue of ex-girlfriends and the various girls who’ve given me the ‘look’ – it’s not a long list - seems to have dwindled down to Ex Numero 3, Claudette, and I am tired of having to share the shower and my empty bed with her. She has served me well since we parted ways three years ago but she does need a rest from her conjugal duties. True, I am lonely. It is a loneliness of the body and the spirit. It is strange, really, that the more people there are around you, the more lonely you feel. I think of loneliness, and its bedfellow anxiety, as my most loyal companions in the city. The lonely are many here. The crowdedness, the relentless pace, the fierce battle for time and space and social status, the struggle to get from place to place, to make appointments, to make enough money to live, all these things conspire against companionship, and those precious moments of care-free happiness. London is a great big sucking machine, it hulks over and feeds off its inhabitants, as if a giant invisible space vampire has landed here, feeding on a hapless army of millions, which it voraciously turns into zombies.
6.50 AM. I listen to the news and hear that the Icelandic volcano is spewing out a huge cloud of gas, which northerly winds are bringing our way. Flights will be disrupted and civilisation as we know it perhaps brought to a shuddering halt. Nature’s little reminder of whose boss. I quickly compute all the people I know who are currently out of the country and might be caught up in this ash crisis. The figures are alarmingly high. How is it that at least half the people that matter to me in my life are spread across the world? I must be part of the jet set, even if it is a more of a sub-set, the Economy Set. Perhaps that is how it is now in this rich nation of ours, more and more of us are no longer living on earth, but are suspended in flying tubes eating reheated and overpriced bacon rolls; at least until the ash comes along like a divine clamping unit and grounds us.
7.26 AM. Arrive at Oasis Swimming Pool, Covent Garden, for morning swim. Swimming allows me to think and to meditate. The changing area is predictably cramped and busy. This is central London and every inch is expensive real estate. This means getting up close and personal with a range of nationalities and body types. Just as breasts come in an infinite variety of shapes and forms, so do the intimate parts of the male anatomy. There are always the well endowed who take an inordinate amount of time to get changed, and appear to take great pleasure in leisurely displaying their assets and thereby establish their physical superiority to the rest of the gym. What a difference an inch can make in the male social hierarchy.
My pleasure at the pool is also undermined by the difficult cultural interplay and the primitive displays of machismo that take place both in the changing rooms and in the water. There is the muscular Russian gangster type who, although only in underpants, cannot put down his mobile phone. He takes one call then makes another and he does not cut any of these conversations short. They are all obviously very important and best conducted in tight pants. The Russian speaks gruffly and swaggers around the changing area, preening in the mirror and flexing his overgrown muscles. When I look in the mirror I see a scrawny figure, muscles on the arms barely discernable, my chest of the pigeon variety. I can see a few of my ribs, which at least means I am not overweight, but there is no sign of a washboard. My mousey straight hair on my head needs a cut and there are signs of receding in the corners of the temple where the parting lines end. I cover these over with a brush of my hand. Despite awareness of how puny I seem compared to my Russian friend, like most men I still harbour pretensions of masculinity, even if I have neglected it in my desk- and sofa-bound existence.
In the water I am just getting into my stride, using the middle lane, when somebody cuts me up on my inside to overtake me. In central London there are a lot of global professionals, part of the new ethnographic and economic life of the city. Some of them treat the pool like an exchange floor without the pinstripes. At the end of one length I turned to begin the next, moving into the anticlockwise lane, when I collide with someone. I stand up and see the swimmer turn and stare at me, if you can stare when you are wearing goggles and speedos.
“Watch out, stay in your own lane, ” he says. I stand speechless. If you cannot see someone’s eyes then you cannot gauge enough about them to make a judgement call on how to gauge your own response. Having made his point, he shrugs then turns and continues swimming before I can say anything. I felt like an unwanted guest in this upstart’s private pool. The anger rises up inside but I have nowhere to put it, and besides, swimmers look very alike with hair cap and goggles.
A young male lifeguard interjects: “Wow, it’s getting hot in here this morning. People just need to chill.” He smiles at me and I smile back. The spiritual path means not rising to all the provocations that life throws at you. I use the swim to exorcise the tension that the incident had burnished in me. Why should I care? London is full of testosterone-breathing, SUV-driving, dick-swinging geezers who came to the city to make ‘bizniz’ and act like they are Scarface or Gordon Geckov from Novosibirsk, buying up properties in Chelsea and building swimming pools in the basement. This ugliness is the logical conclusion of a culture that embraces the global moneymen and spivs without prejudice, like a blank-faced Berwick Street whore (she too was recently imported, globalised flesh). In the West End there was no sign of a new spirit of modesty or accommodation to the sensitivities of others. The swimming pool was not for the real money anyway, as it was a public pool for people who could not afford to join the swish private gym next door. These were just wannabes. But they acted like they were money. The recession had not changed that. If anything, it had just injected a note of desperation into proceedings. I imagined seizing my pool companion by the ears and smashing his skull into the smooth ceramic edge of the pool. Momentarily I felt better.
Thursday, 21 July 2011
The Overwhelming - A Novel by Joe Gill
You are reading: Nick Day
Age: 35
Marital Status: Single
Credit Cards: 3. Total Balance: £5287 DR
Current account balance: £435 DR
Other accounts: One Investment ISA. Current value: £2823
Owner/occupier: Yes
Property: one bedroom flat, Holloway, North London
Mortgage: £122,000, 25-years, repayment. 21 years to run.
Pension: None
Employment: Business reporter
Siblings: One – sister. 2 children.
Parents: Separated. Mother, in France visiting sister. Father, Marbella, Spain, retired.
MyFace friends: 117
Interests: swimming; cosmology; photography; Eastern spiritualism, Islamic terrorism.
Today’s headlines
5.57AM Volcano in Iceland produces huge ash cloud, causing flights to be cancelled.
8.20AM Investment banker Harvey Magdoff is found shot at his home in Martha’s Vineyard.
12.29PM Lorry bombs explode in the vicinity of Buckingham Palace, London.
1.56pm Commercial airliner is hijacked after taking off from Malta.
2.35PM Hijacked airliner crashes into Paris Disney Resort’s Sleeping Beauty Tower.
3.59PM An explosion and fire engulf the Cucumber building in the City of London.
4.18PM Jittery stock markets tumble across the world.
6.37PM Meeting between British officials and Israeli defence team breaks up in London. Israelis say the ‘time of decision is now’.
7.11PM French President says France is prepared to take military action against those who launched the terror attack on Euro Disney.
9.37PM. Suspected terrorist shot dead at block of flats in East London. Two Iranian and three Pakistani passports found at flat belonging to bombers.
Age: 35
Marital Status: Single
Credit Cards: 3. Total Balance: £5287 DR
Current account balance: £435 DR
Other accounts: One Investment ISA. Current value: £2823
Owner/occupier: Yes
Property: one bedroom flat, Holloway, North London
Mortgage: £122,000, 25-years, repayment. 21 years to run.
Pension: None
Employment: Business reporter
Siblings: One – sister. 2 children.
Parents: Separated. Mother, in France visiting sister. Father, Marbella, Spain, retired.
MyFace friends: 117
Interests: swimming; cosmology; photography; Eastern spiritualism, Islamic terrorism.
Today’s headlines
5.57AM Volcano in Iceland produces huge ash cloud, causing flights to be cancelled.
8.20AM Investment banker Harvey Magdoff is found shot at his home in Martha’s Vineyard.
12.29PM Lorry bombs explode in the vicinity of Buckingham Palace, London.
1.56pm Commercial airliner is hijacked after taking off from Malta.
2.35PM Hijacked airliner crashes into Paris Disney Resort’s Sleeping Beauty Tower.
3.59PM An explosion and fire engulf the Cucumber building in the City of London.
4.18PM Jittery stock markets tumble across the world.
6.37PM Meeting between British officials and Israeli defence team breaks up in London. Israelis say the ‘time of decision is now’.
7.11PM French President says France is prepared to take military action against those who launched the terror attack on Euro Disney.
9.37PM. Suspected terrorist shot dead at block of flats in East London. Two Iranian and three Pakistani passports found at flat belonging to bombers.
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