Books

‘Bash the rich: True life confessions of an anarchist in the UK’…….. £9.99

STOP PRESS:  NOW REDUCED TO JUST £6.59 on AMAZON UK - WOT A FUCKING BARGAIN!

Special Thatcher cover hardback - available only direct from

                                        Tangent Books

          ‘This book is more than just a litany of riots and rucks however exciting. Its a thoughtful examination of class, struggle and social change. AND A WONDERFUL,VITAL PIECE OF SOCIAL AND POLITICAL HISTORY. ABSOLUTELY MANDATORY!’…………………….AK PRESS

‘Ian cuts a picaresque swathe through cynicism, bombast and pretension. Anecdotes and laugh out loud tales from the anarchist swampland unfold on every page as a story is woven that is mightily inspirational, consistently hilarious and often quite touching’.

‘Unlike possibly every other poltical autobiography ever written its uproariously funny’

‘He is the best writer on the Left in Britain by some distance’

‘I thouroughly enjoyed it…….the riotous narrative, the perceptive insights into the sub cultures of the 60’s, 70’s and 80’s and the reflective tone of his conclusions’

‘This book is very enjoyable………here’s to the book’   Ian Jack  Granta

order from: www.tangentbooks.co.uk or amazon or waterstones or Fopp/Rough trade/ AK distro/Housemans/News from Nowhere/Politicos

USA: Amazon or AK distro.

Appledore

The missing Appledore chapter from Bash the Rich

It was a blowzy dead-time rat ambling across road afternoon. We were perambulating the back
of ‘the biggest indoor shipyard in Europe’ - a local pride quote oft made by Chris Causer of Barnstaple Class War – at Appledore. It might be big but it wasn’t busy.

Nettles, dock leaves, rosebay willow herb sprouted from rust coloured crumbling brickwork next to the still spruce main shed. Who would place their orders in this obscure yard – Arab Sheiks? The Swiss Navy? Decomposing Bokassas of Burundi?
Katangese mercenaries? Mark Thatcher?

This unlikely industrial colossus on the banks of the Bideford estuary was not on the ‘must see’ tourist guide to North Devon . I convinced myself it would be as near as damn it to visiting the coagulated rust meldings of the derelict Fray Bentos meat processing factory on the banks of the River Plate. Winding round the back of the shipyard was a bucolic country lane with grass pushing through its middle where at any moment a meander of idling cows might make its sturdy trusting plod to the milksheds . Not a sound was heard – not a funeral note!

At the sound of the shipyard hooter the rural idyll would be shattered by the pell-mell rush of black and white blokes on bicycles racing from the gates. But not today.
I almost saw George Orwell, home from Catalonia, gazing from a London bound clacking steam train at this phoney peaceful bliss…….. ‘when will we awaken from our long dark sleep, mouthed George to me’.

We rounded a bend and there was a pub. Shipyard deserted, no houses, no village, no people - a Brigadoon of a pub. There’s some pubs no matter how many times you go there you can never find your way to next time. Puzzle your way to the ‘Commercial Volunteer’ in Bristol more than once. I don’t remember the name of the Appledore pub…

We went in. A bluebottle on top of a crusty ketchup top winked at us. It was in a Heinz sauce bottle but somewhere out the back at some time someone had poured a catering pack of Hazeldean runny orange coloured tomato sauce into the Heinz bottle. Four blokes were slowly drinking pints of light and bitter. You always got more than half a bitter when you ordered a light and bitter’ cos they had to pour the half into a pint glass with no half marked on it. Two blokes playing pool as the others eked out their beverages at that lost world between 3pm – 5pm known only to the seasoned drinker.

I wanted to sit at the bar and eat the whole dusty jar of pickled eggs – last fingered on VJ night - one after the other Cool Hand Luke style… Then vanish. After I’d gone someone would marvel, “Who were those guys?” but in reality there’d just be the slightly raised suffering eyebrow and silence.

The four drinkers continued the practiced art of desultory gazing at the pool players as if the outcome had any import. The barmaid couldn’t be arsed… Not couldn’t be arsed to do anything you understand… She just couldn’t be arsed.

My companion asked for a tomato juice with Worcestershire sauce.
“We don’t have any.”
“Oh well I’ll just have the tomato juice then.”
“No… We aint got any fucking tomato juice”

I imagined The Beacon on The Buttershaw was like this. I knew The Rhymbuck in Cwmbrwla was. There was a nobility to it known only to the cognoscenti unconcerned about their longevity or actuarial lifespan or government health targets.

These were the punters our organs must reach. One day comrades… One day.

Anarchist!

available from: londoncwf@yahoo.co.uk

Full text

COMING SOON…
A novel: in ten installments

‘PIGFUCKER: True Life confessions of an anarchist pig’
Straight up!

‘DECADE OF DISORDER’  published by Verso 1992