A little bit of sympathy at the back, there.
Puh-leaze. Let’s be ‘aving yew.
At the Leveson inquiry
The cruellest moment is when
Sir Paul Stephenson,
The poor put-upon former chief bill,
Hobbles in on crutches and drops a pill,
Cutting such a pathetic sight
Under the assembled legal might.
So small for a tall man,
Bespectacled nerd
Pinched lips, he can barely cope.
Only a thug like a lawyer
Would punch well-honed words
At a man on the ropes.

He says:
I may be public watchdog eyes and ears but
I wasn’t there, never heard a thing,
Couldn’t see, except for what the reptiles did to Lord Ian Blair
Stripped bare in the glare of The Sun
And that wasn’t going to happen to me.

A loose-lipped minority gossiped
In a distracting dialogue of disharmony,
Dysfunctional, too close for my liking.
But I couldn’t do a thing, not a thing.

Ever so humbly, may I suggest you are
Crediting me with a level of analysis I don’t have.
I didn’t give it any particular thought
No conclusions can be wrought.
It was just something that happened,
Like The Sun coming up in the morning,
Shedding light on the scum we turned over.
I am not fawning but we don’t investigate someone we know socially
and with whom we are friends.
Except when we did the police officers.
A big boy done it and ran away
And stopped us realising there was anything wrong
When he told us there was no new hack sore.
We adopted a defensive mindset instead of a challenging stance
I can see that now.
It was a cursory glance
Not wide, not deep.
We were asleep.
If only we had the wisdom of hindsight
and hadn’t been caught out
it would all be all right.

I’m not throwing my colleague out of the back of the sleigh and
I can’t answer for him but
It would have been wiser presentationally
For him to have done it different.
However, he is away in Bahrain and you aren’t getting him back in Old Blighty
Until the heat is off,
Until you call off the dogs,
Until the trail has chilled like the champagne we quaffed as we doffed.
Defending and not challenging,
That was the error of our ways.
We are brave and did not back off, guv,
Just because it was News International.

We were logical and needed the polaroids
Coz the tapes and diaries in Glenn’s black bags were not enough.
It was the Bahrain runaway who did not reopen the enquiry
He failed, it is regrettable. That’s tough.
Fear of taking on a powerful enterprise is not the case.
I did not put the frighteners on the Guardian editor,
Or spray him with Mace,
Or rough him up too much.
Politics over substance
I merely turned up to understand.
But there was no meeting of minds,
My pulse did not race.
You could not get off your face with him
Unlike the real press, proper gents we could have a laugh with
Over a drink and a nice dinner.
Call it folly but Mr Wallis was generous with the Bolly
And Yates of the Yard was fond of his jollies.
I just did not get it and wasn’t keeping tally,
The Met caught Chlamedia off Wallis by getting too pally
But we gave him Cressida Dick.

A lack of evidence beyond the lone rogue reporter
Meant rationed resources and an underfunded force
Would not be put on the job as a matter of course.
Please give us more dosh if you wish us to wield the cosh.
I was overworked with anti-terrorism,
The Olympics,
Not my decision
A junior did it and is sunning himself in sandy climes.
I am an ill man, I need a week in a spa.
Can you recommend one?

And so they adjourn for another time.

But spare a thought for the thin blue line.
Poor Raisa, disappeared, turned to glue,
Currently starring in a pet food can near you
To stop her singing like a canary,
Squealing like a pig at an inquiry.
Take the porkers she carried;
She knew Cameron’s arse inside and out,
Blue heart and stout,
Fullsome about Coulson,
He put it about,
Withdrew when the thin blue sphincter tightened,
Purged the toad and found his load lightened.
Raisa rode bravely into the student throngs they harried
Righting a wrong for the Right
Got the stomach for a fight when protesters say neigh
And you weigh as much as ten of them
With a bobby on your back.
Truncheoned before luncheon
Unfree by tea
Scuppered before supper.
A hack for the hacks
The sack for the lax
When they are found out
Her hooves are all over this
but her head is in some mogul’s bed.

(c) Anna Chen 5th March 2012

Note: Neil Wallis’s company, hired by the Met, is named Chamy Media

Photographs by Jan Jefferies taken on my Lumix TZ20 camera except where stated. More photographs of the Farrago Poetry History Slam to come via Joh Paul O’Neill. Portraits of the cast by Sukey Parnell arriving soon.

(Thanks to Deborah Evans-Stickland’s friends at Verulaneum for the loan of the genuine replica Roman helmet for Britannia.)

The story in pictures: click on the first photo to see these full size, then click on the pic to advance to the next one and so on.

All pix copyright Anna Chen 2012 except those stated otherwise.

Show kicks off at 6.45pm. It’ll be just like you were there.

Click on these links:

New MLEC2flashios embed

Back-up live stream

The profits from the opium trade made fortunes, earned revenues for the British government, paid for the administration of the Empire in India and even financed a large slice of Royal Navy costs. When the Chinese tried to halt the import of the drug, the narco-capitalists persuaded Foreign Secretary Palmerston and Lord Melbourne’s government to go to war in 1839. The first military conflict, lasting a bloody three years, resulted in the Treaty of Nanking and the transfer of territory including Hong Kong to British rule.

Want to find out more about this dark period in Anglo-Chinese history? To celebrate Chinese New Year and mark the opening of the National Maritime Museum’s new Traders Gallery, I’m presenting The Steampunk Opium Wars extravaganza with songs poetry and music from legendary writer Charles Shaar Murray; The Plague’s Marc “The Exorcist” Jefferies; Deborah Evans-Stickland performing her Flying Lizards mega-hit “Money (That’s What I Want)”; Gary Lammin; and DJ Zoe Baxter AKA Lucky Cat from Resonance FM.

Historical characters will be slugging it out in verse to persuade us of the pros and cons of waging war to push drugs: with John Crow Constable, Paul Anderson, Hugo Trebels, John Paul O’Neill and Louise Whittle.

The evening is centred around Farrago Poetry‘s History Slam where the audience will have a chance to write poetry on the theme in workshops led by the historical characters, and then perform them in the slam.

Come and play with us.

Free entry but places have to be booked in advance.

Anna Chen presents “Traders”
National Maritime Museum, Sammy Ofer Wing
Greenwich
6.30-10pm
Thursday 16th February 2012
Tickets: Free but book in advance
Tel: 020 8312 6608

FACEBOOK PAGE FOR THE STEAMPUNK OPIUM WARS

I’m most chuffed to see that my programme on the delights of St Ives in Cornwall has been made Pick of the Day in the Radio Times, The Times, Telegraph, Daily Mail, Observer and the Independent on Saturday.

My connection with the seaside town began before I was born, when my aunt and uncle spent their honeymoon there. I was later taken on holidays with my family as a child. I loved it so much that I lived there for two years as a teenager, dragging my best friend along. Denise fell under its spell and didn’t go back home for months, working as a hotel chambermaid and for the legendary (in my mind) Mr Peggotty’s discotheque. That’s a story that’s been repeated in various forms down the years.

In St Ives and Me, I wanted not only to share my love of the place but to explore why it is such a powerful draw for artists and bohemians. It was vital in my spiritual and creative development, and still is, especially in the way the various events stimulate, showcase and encourage poets, musicians, performers and writers.

The arts are democratised in St Ives, class differences dissolved, human potential realised. Money and privilege doesn’t get you as far as talent and enthusiasm. But they do buy you a niche down there. The bankers and second home owners are pushing out the locals. We may be witnessing the end of a golden age if they push out the creatives, in which case we may end up with just another pretty coastal town.

St Ives and Me: BBC Radio 4 11:30 Thursday 1st December
Produced by Chris Eldon Lee for Culture Wise

A few photos from my September visit when I recorded St Ives & Me for BBC Radio 4. Plus more from past visits. Click on pix for full size versions.:

All pix copyright Anna Chen

Still on-script in this last stage in the development process but the voice was BIG (thanks to all the vocal exercises I’ve been doing to everyone’s annoyance), as I told the story of Anna May Wong refracted through my own experience growing up in Hackney, the far east … of London.

It was followed by a Q&A session with Veronica Needa and Lucy Sheen who’d performed their own solo shows during the short season that week, In The Mirror.

Jan Jefferies looked after us and took the pix on Anna’s Lumix TZ20. Produced by True Heart Theatre and directed by Wing Hong Li.

It was part of the In The Mirror season at the New Diorama Theatre, London NW1.

Click on pix for full-size versions.

Anna Chen, Lucy Sheen, Veronica Needa

ANNA MAY WONG MUST DIE!
Written and performed by Anna Chen
Live music accompaniment from Charles Shaar Murray and Marc Jefferies
New Diorama Theatre, NW1 3BF
Thursday 10th November 19:30
Saturday 12th November 20:30
£8.50/£6.50
(There will be a Q&A after the Saturday performance)
Presented by True Heart Theatre
Anna May Wong Must Die! at the New Diorama Theatre

At last, I’m performing two shows of my multi-media Anna May Wong Must Die! as a “work-in-progress” at the New Diorama Theatre as part of True Heart’s In The Mirror season. Also performing during the week: Lucy Sheen and Veronica Needa. (Details on the webpage.)

I’ll be on-script as it’s still early days in the life of this piece (so no press), but I hope to come out of the week with the play nailed. I look forward to to hearing some solid feedback, especially if you come to the Saturday Q&A session where the three of us plus True Heart artistic director Wing Hong Li will be chatting to the audience.

It’s unusual, possibly unique, to get three Chinese diaspora writers and performers together like this in one UK venue in one week so please do try to make it.

A little bit of politics, laydees an’ gennelmen with “Big Society: on a conversation at the Foundling Museum”.

Recorded at Café Art during the St Ives Arts Festival September 2011. Written in June 2011.

St Ives Festival 2011: Intro and Kicking A Dinosaur video
St Ives Festival 2011 pix: Artists & Tate Balloons
St Ives Festival 2011 pix: The Island and St Nicholas Chapel

Ring those bells, break out the cheap fizz, for I have been reunited with my original punk leather jacket which I thought I’d lost in various house-moves.

Clearing out the Vault Of Horror that is the hall cupboard, I finally mustered the courage to trawl through the crud and found a bag containing said item. It weighs a ton. Partially customised by Vivienne Westwood back in the days of Sex when kids could walk in and ask and receive individual styling tips from the Grande Dame of Punk Couture, she looped yards of heavy chain through the epaulettes and made me feel a million dollars, even though we were rejecting that sort of materialism back then. Or so I was told. I was young. I was wet behind the ears. My brain hadn’t fully growed.

Emboldened by watching the Master do her thing, I then went to town and finished the job.

Here’s a pic of Keith Moon wearing the early version before The Who’s gig at Celtic FC. (Note photographer Chalkie Davies in suburban knitwear.)

Pix (c) Anna Chen

First outing for the punk jacket since being reunited with it here

Who could forget the big crisps heist of the summer of 2011? With Poundland in front of us and our comrades behind us, we held the world and special-offer broken biscuits in the palms of our hands, along with a bottle of Pantene medicated shampoo and a pack of genuine Cussons Imperial Leather soaps. Luxury! That was all we could carry for, in the spirit of solidarity, we had to share our booty fairly with the bredren and we were mindful of such things. I cast my eyes across the cornucopia of Stuff I could only dream of and wept that my pockets were already crammed with Haribo gelatine sweetmeats. So with a giant Toblerone or two clenched between my ample thighs, I hurried out into the night knowing I would eat this day and have shiny hair also.

We felt like kings.

Welcome to Thatcher’s children: the logical conclusion of the dictum that “there is no such thing as society”, that we are all as atomised as a handful of broken biscuits. Rampant consumerism, celebrity and bling. Knowing the price of everything (even if you can’t afford it) and the value of nothing. How cheaply these kids have been bought and then sold on to the lowest purveyors of crap.

I’d wondered idly before in this blog what it would take to knock Murdoch and the rest of The Sopranos who’ve been running this country off the front pages. It’s as if once the mask was ripped off the Dark Lord’s face (and replaced with a foam pie), a maelstrom of malevolent forces was unleashed: a right-wing nutter massacre in Norway, the bullet-train crash in China, the end of the US space age that had represented such hope, the deaths of two majorly talented women (RIP Amy and Fran), and now the UK riots.

There may not be a political objective in this insurrection, but the situation has its roots in politics. Triggered by the fatal police shooting of Mark Duggan last week, the anger fuelling the riots had been building for a long time.

In this topsy-turvey world, the unelected Tories, backed up by the LibDems (cursed be they unto the last Ramsay McClegg) forced the poor to recapitalise the bankers following their crisis and recession, while the rich remain untouched. Cuts to public services will see this country on its knees while directors and bankers pay themselves Croesus-sized wedge — the bankers in particular are now paying themselves more in bonuses than they are lending, despite benefiting from a public bail-out. Emboldened by the flabbiness of the Labour opposition, the government is even considering cutting the 50p rate of tax for the top one percent.

VAT is the most unfair tax going, and raising it to 20 per cent has halted the slow climb out of the doldrums that was underway. The poor pay the highest proportion of their income as tax and still the party of the rich keep on squeezing.

The media taunt us with images and tales of the super-rich as if they are a good thing. Bernie Ecclestone buys his daughter Regan — or is it Goneril? — a £56 million house in London while her property portfolio includes a £60 million mansion in L.A. The new aristocracy tell us in their demeaning X-Factorish product that you only create “art” in order to gain Stuff, fame and all the baubles that we’d once rejected as meaningless tat. No inner life, no self-respect, no introspection. Just feral impulses encouraged by a feral elite.

What did we think would happen? There have been voices telling us that we have to listen to the people who’ve been stripped of hope, with nothing to look forward to but a future of Victorian levels of poverty. How much did the EMA cost us? That measly £30 a week to encourage kids to continue their education, to grow inside, feel self-worth and make themselves employable. At £560 million per year for an entire generation, it was cheap in comparison with the estimated £100 million plus that the riots will have cost. And how do you put a price on the damage done to the national psyche? To race relations? To trust?

The outreach workers who were connecting with these kids now have no jobs thanks to the cuts. Libraries are closing. Wonderful solid old Victorian brick schools are being sold off as luxury flats while rubbish boxes are built to replace them. Oh, I’m sorry, even that’s not happening, thanks to Education Secretary Michael Gove.

People were burnt out of their homes and at least one man has died. The nation has welcomed martial law into our country.

The damage runs deep. The looted items stand for far more than just the acquisition of Stuff.

Two fictional references come to mind: Pottersville, the corrupt town which sprang up where there was once a community in It’s A Wonderful Life. And the episode of Buffy The Vampire Slayer where our eponymous heroine has never been born. Beloved Characters are now vicious murdering vampires once denied Buffy’s positive influence — the finale where lovers and friends kill each other is one of the saddest moments I’ve seen in a TV show. You look at the kids rioting and it’s hard not to imagine each and every one of them as fully-developed, kind, intelligent, self-reflective individuals able to participate in society as productive human beings — if only they had been born in a different time-line.

Instead, we have mere shadows of people. Yes, criminal elements have to be punished. The young people who did this have to learn that there are consequences for destructive anti-social behaviour against their own bredren, innocent people. But so should the grand theft looters at the top who have set the agenda and the example. As above, so below.

Meanwhile, Murdoch and his friends carry on like it’s bidness as usual.

Musical commentary by The Bermondsey Joyriders with “Society Is Rapidly Changing”. Video by me.

Brilliant Photoshoplooter pix

Sympathy and condolences to the friends and family of the three who died last night in Birmingham.