| 9/11 Special - Dutch Television Documentary Two prominent European politicians, Michael Meacher and Andreas von Bülow, express their serious doubts about the official version of the 9/11 story. “Was 9/11 more than just an attack? Could the Bush administration have had anything to gain from the attack? Two prominent European politicians, Michael Meacher and Andreas von Bülow, express their serious doubts about the official version of the 9/11 story.” Michael Meacher - MP - Former UK Government Minister. "The war on terror is bogus" Andreas Von Bulow, Former German Secretary Of Defense "The official story is so inadequate and far fetched that there must be a different one" | |
Thursday, November 30, 2006
Michael Meacher and Andreas Von Bülow express their serious doubts about 9/11
Tuesday, March 07, 2006
Istanbul 06/06/2003
Ten time-zones west, the Istanbul skyline grappled and played with my senses, perched above the city’s Attaturk Airport I could make out the starkness of the city’s mosque roofs, golden icing cake swirls against a natural opaque red sky, the view inspired me not just with its undeniable gracious aesthetic, but for everything it represented to me there and then: freedom.
The airport’s inside was less pleasant but not for lack of trying by its interior designers, done up like a pseudo Dickensian shopping street only all the street furniture was a not so Dickensian steel, chrome and alloy under a glass dome, the scene was more bizarre than bazaar, an antidote to any Great Expectations.
In my pocket I had my passport, my air ticket, my cash-card for babies cash-card and one laundered five pound note, (nothing sinister dear reader). The day before I had accidentally washed the money in the pocket of my jeans in a washing machine.
With no access to ATMs for passengers in transit I’d made my first Lonely Planet ‘faux pas’, the five pound note was literally hanging together by a thread. I approached an exchange booth with the same confidence I’d approached an off licence in the hope of purchasing Special Brew when I was 13.
‘Can you exchange this for Euros please?’ The attendant held up the collateral, ‘Where’ve you been with this, Baghdad?’ not much pleading ensued before I was back to square one. Further up Charles Dickens Street I sought my saviour, the ubiquitous English Pub, I think it was called… English Pub.
Here I was at the ‘Gateway to Asia’ in an English Pub, the first thing I noticed having spent a considerably large amount of time in English pubs is that nothing resembled what it so quaintly attempted: it wasn’t an English Pub, it wasn’t English and it was barely a pub, the custom of going to the bar to get served had also lost itself, or rather, disappeared up its own arse. The Jukebox playing English pop music bore the only similarity, the plasticity and overall falseness of the place empowered me, I could decide to be culturally offended, stigmatised I sat down.
The Turkish waiter approached, my second attempt at getting rid of this note in exchange for much needed liquid would not fail me.
‘How can I help you?’ ‘A pint of lager, please.’ The smartly dressed waiter tottered off to the bar, I watched as he returned with a pint, it looked good. I can’t remember the price, or the brand for that matter, it didn’t matter, he passed me the bill, I rolled the note up tight in my hand and signalled for the waiter to pass me his open hand.
I stuffed the note into his palm, smiled and then cheekily closed his hand around it in the manner a dealer would stuff a few little fellas into a punter's hand. He turned and made for the bar looking into the contents of his palm. I started to sink the pint, at the bar he scrutinised what was left of the fiver, holding it up to the light, shaking his head. He called over his manager and explained the situation, the manager sent him back, by now the pint was three-quarters gone. In very good English he told me he couldn’t accept my money, I argued it ‘was’ legal tender, he asked if I had any cards, I did. I gave him my Halifax cash-card for babies card, no Visa or Mastercard, not even Switch, it had Solo but I didn’t know many people who knew what Solo did, especially not in Turkey.
He went back to the bar and tried to swipe my transaction despite my explanation it wouldn’t work. It didn’t work, flustered he came back, do you have anything else?
‘No,’
‘Where are you going?’
‘Bangkok,’
‘You’re going to Bangkok, with this?’ he exasperated in either disbelief or pity, or somewhere between the two.
‘Yes,’ I replied nonchalantly,
‘It will come out of my wages,’
I thanked him for his act of benevolence but noted he didn’t offer back my beleaguered five pound note.
Throughout my first travelling adventure the jukebox sang out ‘how bizarre, how bizarre,’ I finished my pint and headed for Thailand.
The airport’s inside was less pleasant but not for lack of trying by its interior designers, done up like a pseudo Dickensian shopping street only all the street furniture was a not so Dickensian steel, chrome and alloy under a glass dome, the scene was more bizarre than bazaar, an antidote to any Great Expectations.
In my pocket I had my passport, my air ticket, my cash-card for babies cash-card and one laundered five pound note, (nothing sinister dear reader). The day before I had accidentally washed the money in the pocket of my jeans in a washing machine.
With no access to ATMs for passengers in transit I’d made my first Lonely Planet ‘faux pas’, the five pound note was literally hanging together by a thread. I approached an exchange booth with the same confidence I’d approached an off licence in the hope of purchasing Special Brew when I was 13.
‘Can you exchange this for Euros please?’ The attendant held up the collateral, ‘Where’ve you been with this, Baghdad?’ not much pleading ensued before I was back to square one. Further up Charles Dickens Street I sought my saviour, the ubiquitous English Pub, I think it was called… English Pub.
Here I was at the ‘Gateway to Asia’ in an English Pub, the first thing I noticed having spent a considerably large amount of time in English pubs is that nothing resembled what it so quaintly attempted: it wasn’t an English Pub, it wasn’t English and it was barely a pub, the custom of going to the bar to get served had also lost itself, or rather, disappeared up its own arse. The Jukebox playing English pop music bore the only similarity, the plasticity and overall falseness of the place empowered me, I could decide to be culturally offended, stigmatised I sat down.
The Turkish waiter approached, my second attempt at getting rid of this note in exchange for much needed liquid would not fail me.
‘How can I help you?’ ‘A pint of lager, please.’ The smartly dressed waiter tottered off to the bar, I watched as he returned with a pint, it looked good. I can’t remember the price, or the brand for that matter, it didn’t matter, he passed me the bill, I rolled the note up tight in my hand and signalled for the waiter to pass me his open hand.
I stuffed the note into his palm, smiled and then cheekily closed his hand around it in the manner a dealer would stuff a few little fellas into a punter's hand. He turned and made for the bar looking into the contents of his palm. I started to sink the pint, at the bar he scrutinised what was left of the fiver, holding it up to the light, shaking his head. He called over his manager and explained the situation, the manager sent him back, by now the pint was three-quarters gone. In very good English he told me he couldn’t accept my money, I argued it ‘was’ legal tender, he asked if I had any cards, I did. I gave him my Halifax cash-card for babies card, no Visa or Mastercard, not even Switch, it had Solo but I didn’t know many people who knew what Solo did, especially not in Turkey.
He went back to the bar and tried to swipe my transaction despite my explanation it wouldn’t work. It didn’t work, flustered he came back, do you have anything else?
‘No,’
‘Where are you going?’
‘Bangkok,’
‘You’re going to Bangkok, with this?’ he exasperated in either disbelief or pity, or somewhere between the two.
‘Yes,’ I replied nonchalantly,
‘It will come out of my wages,’
I thanked him for his act of benevolence but noted he didn’t offer back my beleaguered five pound note.
Throughout my first travelling adventure the jukebox sang out ‘how bizarre, how bizarre,’ I finished my pint and headed for Thailand.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
