Secret sisters: Was David Bowie’s ‘The Bewlay Brothers’ inspired by Christina Rossetti’s ‘Goblin Market’?


A theory. Go with me here.


Step out of yourself. Just for one day.


There was always something that fascinated and bugged me about Bowie’s ‘The Bewlay Brothers’. It’s the oddest thing on Hunky Dory by a mile, and that’s saying something. Chris O’Leary and Nicholas Pegg have both written beautifully about it, and covered it


For me, the initial fascination was in the way it feels like it’s being sucked into a dark dream-world as the sing fades. Those voices – varispeeded, wheedling, tempting, mischievous voices – like gnomes, yes, but more sinister. These are voices that could lead you astray. You shouldn’t listen to them. But they don’t stop. “Please come away… just for the day…”


Bowie talked in 1976 about how the drag cover for The Man Who Sold The World was inspired by Bowie’s exposure to the Pre-Raphaelite painter Dante Gabriel Rossetti – specifically, his sensuously painted women – languorous, cloistered and sultry. And even more specifically the image below.





Dante Rossetti inspired David Bowie



Rossetti’s women were – still are – considered every shy male Eng. Lit. undergraduate’s first pinups. And for the first half of the 20th century at least, he was the famous Rossetti. The centre of the Pre-Raphaelite brotherhood arts collective, the family superstar.


But by the liberated ‘60s, along with their rehabilitation of William Blake as anti-establishment visionary poet, Britain’s campuses and youth were rediscovering (and reframing as a highly Romantic, almost counterculture figure) another famous Rossetti sibling.


Christina used to accompany Dante Gabriel on his early poetic endeavours. She superseded him as a poet, burned brightly, then burned out. For a while, she was as famous as him. And she was chiefly famous for one poem – ‘Goblin Market’.


This was the poem that Dante Gabriel Rossetti championed, sent to the likes of John Ruskin (drawing a famously curt retort) and even drew for publication time and again – the most famous being a pair of women (that Rossetti trademark: long, flowing hair, parted lips, closed eyes) in long dresses, languorously reclining on what could be a sofa or a bed.


Dante Gabriel and Christina Rossetti were inseparable as children. They were both given to art, and to uncontrolled fits of passion. On one occasion, Christina, scolded by her mother, snatched up a pair of scissors and gouged her own arm. They were, said their father, “the two storms” in the family, in contrast to “the two calms” of William and Maria, their other siblings. They wrote sonnets together, in ‘bouts rimés’ – races to compose lines to fit a pre-arranged ending, cutting and swapping lines to get to a finished result first.


Christina was the faster of the two siblings to achieve a measure of fame, becoming nationally published at 17. But it was not to last. She suffered some form of nervous breakdown and collapse as a young woman – the causes are still debated, ranging from unwillingness to be roped into becoming a carer for their father or to take up a career governess, to heart malaise, psychosomatic illness, or a flowering of the tempestuous passions (with the self-harming and violent fits, we’d recognise it today as mental illness) she’d always had. For the rest of her life, she was haunted by visions of ‘clammy fins’ reaching out to grab her.


Thereafter, she became a famous poet – Dante Gabriel paid tribute to her, calling her the second-most famous female poet of the era after Elizabeth Barrett Browning, and in many ways, Browning’s superior.


Her demons would, in time, finally force her hand. She would embrace religiosity and restraint as a doctrine, becoming a shell of the woman the family had known in earlier life. She refused to read her poems; indeed, she would refuse Dante Gabriel permission to read them to his friends. At the height of her fame, Christina Rossetti would disappear, to be replaced by a simulacrum.


But before she did, she would write the poems that were to re-emerge with the birth of feminism in the 1960s to national prominence in England. They would become part of college and university reading lists, and the comprehensive school syllabus from the 1960s onwards. Her most famous are scored into the minds of generations of bookish students, performers, readers and bohemians.


The poem that was set to a hymn as ‘In the bleak midwinter’.


“And if you will, remember. And if you will, forget.”


And her most famous. The one about a pair of siblings who spent too much time among traders and dwarf men, as Bowie later put it. ‘Goblin Market’.


The story. (Maybe you know it.)


Two siblings. One is in full control and sane; one, driven to madness. One sings all day long, for the sheer joy of it. One just loses his/her mind.


The story is one we’re hearing after the fact. Is it a cautionary tale, or a dream, or some sort of enchanted, fond recollection? All three?


The rhyme and metre are familiar too, more in some places than others.


Tender Lizzie could not bear

To watch her sister’s cantankerous care

Yet not to share.


One content, one sick in part;

One warbling for the mere bright day’s delight,

One longing for the night.


This is the story of ‘The Bewlay Brothers’ too. These siblings (Lizzie and Laura – David and Terry) have been opening doors together. Literal doors – going outside, to where strange, unsafe things happen. But also strange doors – doors that they’d never close again. Sexuality. Experience. A strange, hallucinatory demi-monde that normal townsfolk never see.


They’ve been hanging out among the goblins, at the Goblin Market in the haunted dusk. The goblins, whose wares look so tempting. The goblin men, chanting “Come buy, come buy” their fruits from a strange and enchanted market. The “brisk fruit-merchant men” – in Bowie’s song, “traders” and “dwarf men” – are selling more than fruit. This, for the siblings, is sexual awakening, transgression, danger. Addiction. Maybe death.


And while one resists, one stays too long.


She suck’d and suck’d and suck’d the more

Fruits which that unknown orchard bore;

She suck’d until her lips were sore…


And Lizzie, the sane sister who’s been able to resist going all the way with these goblin traders, who resists the fruits, sees her sister getting in deeper. Laura becomes a zombie, always listening for the goblins’ song outside the kitchen window, never able to catch it. But Lizzie’s still together enough to connects with the music. While Laura sickens and nears death, Lizzie the hears the traders call from outside the window, their wheedling, goblin-voiced entreaties, “full of airs and graces” – for her to slip away, and go with them.


She night and morning

Caught the goblins’ cry:

“Come buy our orchard fruits,

Come buy, come buy;” –


(Tantalisingly, there are other echoes – “Come buy my toys”, and of course the other sister in Goblin Market who’d gone before. As we join the siblings, there is a precursor they talk about who has already plunged headlong into the goblin demi-monde and fallen victim to their curse, and was dead and buried as a result. Her name: Jeanie.]


Lizzie, the sane sibling, goes off to save Laura – to score a fix for her from the goblin traders. The goblins try and tempt her, but she resists going all the way and sucking their fruits, and comes back to her sickening sister.


“Hug me, kiss me, suck my juices…


Eat me, drink me, love me… for your sake I have… had to do with goblin men.”


“Is it death, or is it life?”


Eventually, the sibling’s suffering brings Laura back from brink of death and the land of the faerie folk.


“Life out of death.”


But the kicker: It’s a reminiscence. We’re hearing about this as recollection from one of them.


“Afterwards, when both were wives,

With children of their own;

Their mother-hearts beset with fears.

Their lives bound up in tender lives;

Laura would call the little ones

And tell them of her early prime,

Those pleasant days long gone

Of not-returning time:

Would talk about the haunted glen,

The wicked, quaint fruit-merchantmen,

Their fruits like honey to the throat

But poison in the blood;


Would tell them how her sister stood

In deadly peril to do her good,

And win the fiery antidote;

Then joining hands in little hands

Would bid them cling together,

‘For there is no friend like a sister

In calm or stormy weather;

To cheer one on the tedious way;

To fetch one if one goes astray.

To lift one if one totters down,

To strengthen whilst one stands.”


The poem’s public fate was a strange one. In Victorian England, it became the spark for a backlash against treating prostitutes as irredeemable. (They can be saved by the intervention of their sisters). In private, it seemed something more to do with the poet’s state of mind. By Bowie’s time, ‘60s Romanticism and the first wave of feminist politics had redeemed it for both. It was part ‘Kubla Khan’/The Doors of Perception; part ‘The Secret Garden’, part Burroughs’ Junkie. A way of seeming to talk about vice, redemption, transgression and worldly sin… but addressing other worlds, other little demons, entirely.


I’m not going to go full Peter or Leni Gillman here, and I’m not going to propose that ‘The Bewlay Brothers’ is a dramatization of Rossetti’s poem – but I’d argue that it is an interesting probable analogue and inspiration.


I wonder too about Bowie’s nagging return, not just to themes of the lost/mad/transgressive Doppelgängers, twins, brothers – from the lost Bewlay sibling to Aladdin Sane and ‘Jump They Say’ to the cast on ‘1. Outside’, ‘Bleed Like A Craze, Dad’, and the cover of ‘Hours…’, but to all those goblins and faerie folk he can’t seem to resist alternately confronting, befriending, becoming, conjuring up and running like hell from.


They’re there in or just behind ‘The Bewlay Brothers’ and Labyrinth, ‘The Laughing Gnome’, ‘Little Wonder’, Scary Monsters and Super Creeps (little green wheels following him, voices pursuing him “Barking, mewing, hissing, mocking”) opening those doors… and of course the return of that varispeeded goblin voice from ‘The Bewlay Brothers’’ coda for a song about a friend who got locked away and mentally reprogrammed (‘Scream Like a Baby’). And, eventually, the ‘Blackstar’ video (“Their looks were evil/Lashing their tails”).


Last little post-script. In Christina Rossetti’s collected poems, there are some (probably coincidental) echoes of other Bowie sing titles. ‘On the Wing’ is a tortured semi-devotional. ‘No Thank You, John’ offers up “Meg or Moll” instead of Annie or Joe as potential alternative partners for a would-be suitor John, who’s coming on too strong or possessive. ‘Up-Hill’ is even more interesting: a call-and-response hymn about getting there (to Heaven?) together, whose verses you can sing along to the group-vocal on ‘Up The Hill Backwards’ and they fit perfectly. Try it, and ‘UTHB’ reveals a ‘Kumbaya’ element that might just been there all along. Let’s all sing it in a circle. Part of the recovery programme. Here’s to losing those goblins, even if it means dulling our visionary passions, closing those doors. Never done good things, never done bad things. (It’s the secret story of Scary Monsters… . I’m OK, you’re so-so.)


Anyway, that’s a heck of a digression.


Rockin’ in the free world: Gorbachev, poppies and the death of Kurt Cobain

If you really want to know about Nirvana – from who killed Kurt Cobain to the rise of grunge and the Generation X tag – don’t listen to the conspiracy theories; ask a historian.


Soviet anti-drugs poster


The news of Kurt Cobain’s suicide broke 20 years ago today. The anniversary of his death – which probably took place sometime on the 5th April 1994 – from a self-inflicted gunshot at his home in Seattle, has already picked up its fair share of coverage.


There are also plenty of silly conspiracy theories. In the parlour game of ‘Who killed Kurt Cobain?’, anyone but Kurt Cobain will do.


Yet in historical terms, the story of what happened to Kurt Cobain is much bigger, darker and more mysterious – and ultimately, more important to us all here in 2014 – than the shopworn horror show of celebrity, depression, public addiction and suicide suggests. Like all the great detective stories, it deals in the kinds of details outside the jurisdiction of coroners and local cops. In this telling, the soap opera of a pop star’s life and the frenzied search for clues in the music is a distraction from another, more compelling trail of evidence, leading towards a far larger crime.


When American political economist Francis Fukuyama called the Cold War’s close ‘the end of history’ in 1989 – a phrase that gained global currency when he published The End of History & The Last Man in 1992, victorious, insulated America applauded. The rest of us weren’t sure whether to laugh or cry. Far from signalling the final, settled dominance of Western liberal democracy as Fukuyama predicted, the collapse of the Soviet Union had already led to the re-emergence of ethnic and political loyalties long suppressed – and nursed – by the comfortable stasis of the bipolar world. Because the same Cold War that had kept African puppet states, the Iron Curtain and European ethnic divisions in a kind of stasis for the past 40 years had also kept a little piece of death – the seed of his success and his suicide – away from Kurt Cobain. But it too was free now. And it was looking for him.


There’s an uncanny symmetry in Nirvana’s rise and the fall of the established order. The band’s breakthrough sophomore album (and the singer’s eventual albatross) Nevermind went nuclear over Christmas 1991 – the very week Mikhail Gorbachev signed the decree ending the USSR. Just a week later, on New Year’s Day 1992, Nevermind hit Number One, pushing Michael Jackson’s Pepsi-sponsored Bad off the top of the Billboard chart. We woke on that first morning since 1922 without a Soviet Union in the world (it ceased to exist as an entity at midnight on New Year’s Eve 1991) to find that Nevermind had conquered the globe instead.


It would be the first Nirvana record for which the band’s traditional way of sharing royalties out by even thirds would end up recarved by Cobain’s lawyers in the principal songwriter’s favour. No more comrades-in-arms indeed.


In fact, success had made lots of once-simple things dreadfully complicated for Kurt. Good, straightforward relationships – with his band, his record company, his wife, his fans – had become complex, shifting. They couldn’t be trusted. Everyone wanted something. All relationships and values were now calibrated in terms of money. It was a very post-Cold War feeling indeed.


No wonder the monstrous, freakish success of Nevermind led to the re-emergence of all sorts of long-dormant insecurities in Cobain. That happens when you’ve won, chart battle or political standoff. He’d become popular, but was it for the right reasons, in the right way? He worried away at his own worthiness, his authenticity. It didn’t help that he was convinced ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit’ was little more than a cop of another band’s tune. He and bassist Krist Novoselic were consumed with fear that people would see the song for the Pixies rip-off they confessed it had started life as. He didn’t like the fact that he wanted money enough to get heavy on Krist and Dave Grohl about it. ‘Pennyroyal Tea’ was a disguised dig at his own watching of every penny royalty. At the moment of his greatest triumph, Cobain was panicked. He felt like an impostor in his own life. And the more he felt like that, the further he retreated into the drug that made it matter less. Heroin. It have him the power to shrug it off. To say: Never mind. (By 1992, with the heroin-chic circus around him starting to reach the fashion glossies, he wrote a letter to fans explaining his struggle with rehab, in luring the phrase, “Hope I die before I turn into Pete Townshend.” )


Would he have been better off without Nevermind’s success? He often seemed to think so. What is beyond doubt is that while a global tsunami of fantastically good, cheap heroin from the former Central Asian borderlands of the USSR might have been the catalyst for grunge’s super-slow, warm’n’fuzzy sound and (to quote Billy Corgan) “I’m fucked up, you’re fucked up” mantra, it was the very worst thing for anyone experiencing exactly those feelings Cobain now harboured, exactly that need for refuge, at exactly that point.


Yet the wave of heroin kept building. And its appearance at grunge’s cradle was part of a Faustian pact much, much bigger than any that Kurt could make – or for that matter, Alice In Chains’ Layne Staley, or Blind Melon’s Shannon Hoon, or Hole’s Kristen Pfaff, or Mother Love Bone’s Andrew Wood, or anyone dealing in low-tuned, warm, slack, sludgy sleepwalking music in those melancholic, oceanic, autumnal-looking picture sleeves.


The invasion of Afghanistan just over a decade earlier had been the Soviet Union’s most public, costly and longest-drawn-out mistake. Before 1979, Afghanistan’s opium fields exported very little along westward routes. But the CIA’s (and Pakistan’s) assistance for mujahideen fighters resisting the Soviet occupation extended to getting the occupiers hooked on heroin. Production rose, and transportation was provided – Pakistan army trucks coming and going with bales of the stuff every day.


At the same time, there is evidence to suggest official (and increasingly desperate) Soviet plans to cultivate Afghanistan as a heroin patch, and to destabilize the West by facilitating supply lines to Europe and the US. (As early as 1971, a KGB directive designated M·120/00-050 outlined Soviet plans to use heroin to destabilize the West. And by 1986, Soviet state-operated freighters were sailing from Soviet Baltic ports, and arriving in Rotterdam, London, Denmark and elsewhere laden with hundreds of kilos of high-grade heroin.)


Encouraging it was one thing. Controlling it was another. Like a nuclear arms race that would leave unattended warheads lying around who-knew-how-many unstable, newly independent republics the day Nevermind hit the top, this was the sort of tactic that works during occupation and stasis, but backfires after.


The Soviets withdrew in 1989 – crippled by addiction, demotivated, bust. (How very early grunge.) The withdrawing soldiers, quartermasters, pilots, diplomats, drivers, construction workers, kids, all took their Jones with them. Their contacts and supply routes – often officially protected – stayed open for business. And sure enough, a huge problem that had been underground in the ’80s became a huge problem that had gone mainstream. And a system that put its faith in young pioneers, in ideology and the commitment and belief of workers, found itself ill-equipped to survive the point where those young pioneers shrugged, stayed home and jacked up.


And all the time, there came more heroin. And with the domestic market more or less saturated, it had to go somewhere. The product was there; the infrastructure was there; the corruption was still there. And now, as the ruble collapsed, came the sudden, pressing need to make hard, convertible currency. Down on the Afghan-Pakistan side, too many people had been making too many US dollars for too long to stop now. And on the now-ex-Soviet side, plenty of people – demobbed people, people whose future inside the system suddenly looked a lot less secure – suddenly found they had an opportunity. A simple trade.


South-East Asia’s heroin – difficult to transport to Europe or the US, and therefore invariably expensive and degraded by middle-men – suddenly had a far more attractive rival product to contend with.


These were wild times on a new Silk Route. Western Autobahns thronged with Trabis; Highway E55 on the Czech-German border became the world’s longest brothel, cars fitted with blackout screens and grubby curtains rocking and jerking through the bitter winter night. Adventurous tourists and robber capitalists alike swarmed East, overwhelming Moscow, Kiev, Minsk, Almaty and Tashkent with dollars and promises and legally enforceable contracts. And the heroin and the money flowed, aided by police corruption, desperation and the irresistible gradient of supply and demand.


Britain, Scandinavia and Western Europe were easy staging points for the now-free-to-travel vessels, trucks and containers of the former USSR. And once you were in Rotterdam, Copenhagen, Liverpool or London, the world – namely, the USA – was your oyster. The cheap heroin that had brought Russia to its knees was too good an opportunity for gangs on both sides to miss.


Slacker and grunge in the West, refuseniks in the East, were all borne along on the wave of unassailable apathy by history’s largest release of Afghan opium from a failed war. As a retort to the propaganda of struggle for a brighter utopian future (whether chasing a communist ideal or a floating hard-currency dollar), “Never mind” is pretty final.


It’s an intriguing thought. Had it not been for the disaster of the Soviet war in Afghanistan, and the ensuing collapse of the USSR, would Kurt Cobain have died as he did? Perhaps the bigger question is whether grunge itself could have become so big. Did that specific, one-time-only combination of the Afghan mujahideen, Gorbachev and Reagan, and a newly entrepreneurial network of heroin gangs save us all from LA hair metal?


Or perhaps the question is more important still. Maybe all those people in the East who shrugged and turned away from their manifest destiny were part of a more global idea of Generation X than we’d imagined. Maybe their piece of the Berlin Wall was our Adbusters. We’d all been peachy keen recruits to the system, before the shrug. This was history made not by people saluting or rallying, but by people retreating, copping out, shrugging it all off, saying ‘No’.


Which brings us back to that silent house in Seattle 20 years ago. Kurt Cobain didn’t die of a heroin overdose, of course. He died because he shot himself. The autopsy revealed large quantities of heroin in his system, alongside plenty of other stuff, mostly prescription Rohypnol and other garbage. Autopsies don’t say where the heroin came from. They don’t talk about why it’s suddenly flooding streets, gigs, friends’ bedrooms, hotels. They don’t address the economics. It takes history to do that.


Seattle, the E55, Berlin, Russia, Armenia, Kabul, Rwanda, Estonia, Rotterdam. 20 years later, you can trace more and more lines. Now it’s the West’s turn to retreat from Afghanistan. Opium production has soared during our occupation. It’s going to go somewhere. Maybe we should listen out for it. It’s there, in the music, and the celebrity news too.


To steal a 1989 line from Kurt’s hero Neil Young – whose “It’s better to burn out than to fade away” Cobain quoted in his suicide letter – we’re all rockin’ in the free world now.


Premiere: Official preview clip from ‘The Notorious Mr Bout’


There’s a great documentary feature film on arms smuggler Viktor Bout at Sundance 2014 this week.


I’m part of it, but don’t let that put you off – it’s by the team who made the award-winning Pussy Riot: A Punk Prayer last year. There’s more detail below, but in the meantime, here’s the official trailer for The Notorious Mr Bout.



I’m available for comment or press purposes around the release of the film. Contact me through the comments here, or on Twitter where I’m @MattPotter. For film or TV work, contact Rebecca Watson at Valerie Hoskins Associates.


Do you know these men? Andrew Lahde and Colonel Millard Peck

I’m posting this here in the hope that someone has information on a couple of cold trails. I’ve been looking for more than a year, but they’ve disappeared off the face of the Earth. So here goes: one last attempt to track these guys down before I press send.

I’m desperately trying to find/contact vanished US ex-hedge fund boss Andrew Lahde & ex-US Army Col Millard ‘Mike’ Peck (he headed the Washington DC office in charge of locating and repatriating missing Vietnam vets through the 1980s) for a feature/book chapter deadline.

Any and all leads/contacts/current location/employer/associates/status clues appreciated… And please mention to any contacts who might know. Thanks! #JournoRequest

Comment: In praise of apathy: salesmen and survivors, and what two very different bomb sites can tell us about pre-Olympic London in 2012

Something I saw today got me thinking about just what it means to live in a city, and what I hate and love about it. I suspect that it’s got something to tell me about why I distrust the London 2012 cheerleading so much, but I’ll only know when this post is finished. Before I go any further, here’s what I saw.


It’s a replica of the V2 flying bomb, designed by Nazi rocket scientist (and later, NASA boffin) Wernher von Braun and loosed upon London in the later stages of World War Two. The V2 was the successor to the V1 ‘Doodlebug’ that caused so much damage during the Blitz. They foreshadowed the intercontinental ballistic missiles of the Cold War arms race. In terms of their role and usage, though, today’s equivalent would be the pilotless drones deployed by the US over Pakistan.


I see this bomb most days. But I never notice it. Today I noticed it.


It seemed a funny thing to bolt to the side of a building beside the elevated platform of London Bridge station. Even if (the penny dropped…) that building, from the front, is a portico for the Imperial War Museum. That, at least, explained the Union Jack hanging beside it.


(If you don’t live in Britain, or maybe it’s just London, I’m not sure how I can adequately convey the strangeness of seeing a British flag. There just aren’t that many of them. I’m always quietly astonished on visits to Sweden, the US, France, anywhere, at the ubiquity of their national flags. I joke with Norwegian friends about their tendency of hoisting the national flag in their front garden, on birthday cakes, atop mountains, on lorries, on branded cans of food. In case they wake up one day having forgotten where they are. They usually just smile.)


Anyhow, something about the bomb bothered me.


I’ve heard a few bombs off in my life, but only two of them were in London. I was in Greenwich when the Canary Wharf IRA bomb exploded. I heard it and saw a little of the muzz just whisp up around the tower. And I was crossing Long Acre at 9.47am on 7th July 2005, when Hasib Hussein’s backpack bomb tore apart a packed Number 30 bus in Russell Square. Bombs never make the noise you expect. They just make a very short, almost backwards sound, that goes “Dnt.” It’s definitely a weird, disappointed full-stop, not a dramatic exclamation mark. There’s none of the “Pkhkh!” reverb you hear in Hollywood movies. It’s just a stumpy, loud, compacted noise that’s over before it’s begun. Mostly, you aren’t even sure it was a bomb at first. Especially if it’s somewhere you don’t expect one. Then you hear shouts.


That’s when you react – and whatever you might hope, you don’t react with any of Hollywood’s dive-to-the-floor excitement either, but with a weird, disorientated, off-balance fear. Something doesn’t compute. Then you start checking what’s missing (from the landscape, the soundscape, whatever), and wondering whether to go towards or away from it. It’s not good, any of it. I can’t imagine wanting to strap the bombs I heard, or the remains of them, to the side of any tourist building on the South Bank of the Thames.


But there was the V2.


A bomb on a building. Is it there because the war it comes from is over? Because it’s sanitized by the passing years and fresher historical traumas, like a Roman battlefield or mound of flint arrowheads? Undoubtedly. OK, what about: is it there because Britain was among the victors? Is it a trophy?


It certainly looks that way, next to a Union flag advertising something called the Imperial War Museum – at least to a non-Briton. (It’s a credit to the curators that they’ve resisted the easy bucks of misfit patriots and nostalgists; they’ve resisted the patriots’ theme-park trap. A V1 is suspended inside the roof, frozen in mid-fall just metres above visitors’ heads: the moment before impact. This is fear, and the bomb on the outside, visible from platform one of London Bridge rail station, are part of it.)


Still, my feeling won’t let me drop (oho) this. I have a problem with the V2.


I’ve always liked cities that wear their scars well. Not proudly, but honestly. I like Warsaw, for not pulling down the Palace of Culture, built in its centre on the orders of Stalin as a symbol of Russian-Soviet dominion. That alone would make it unpopular enough, give or take its boxy, brutal, anabolic-Empire-State rocketiness. But there it stands. To pull it down would be a lie. The people of Warsaw hold faith with the idea that the city can (it does) incorporate it.


I like Berlin, for leaving the bulletholes on the sides of buildings from the obscure, smacky back alleys of Wedding to the iconic Brandenburger Tor. Berlin has no choice. Just as it is for the Union Jack, for Berlin the past is a complex place. To cover the bulletholes – made by Russian, German, British and American bullets – would be an act of dishonesty. There’s plenty of dishonesty around in Berlin, of course (those street names that keep changing depending on who’s in charge) but still, the holes are there.


I was thinking of more examples when the train pulled in. I got on the train, sat with my face pressed against the smeared and scratchtagged window as we sighed and creaked over the girders and arches. The sky lowered, and by the time the door-press button activated at my stop, its hydraulic hiss and orange glow felt as welcoming as a lantern in a window.


Outside my station, somewhere in the southern suburbs, I crossed the road at a bridge. The vans and buses and mums with buggies flowed over the bridge, and I stepped between them and up onto the kerb. A long time ago, it someone had painted a sign on the bridge. I pass it a lot. This time, I read it.

And suddenly, I knew what bothered me so much about the V2 at London Bridge.


The ‘shelter for 700’ refers to a wartime air raid shelter in a siding under the station bridge. The shelter is one for local families to use when the bombs started raining from the sky, right from the Luftwaffe raids in 1941 to the V2s in ’45. There’s nothing here in this suburb, nothing but people. There’s never been a factory here, never a military base, never a government building. Just people, parks, churches and a couple of shops. But because it was a few short miles south of the Docks, it took a lot of its damage from jettisoned bombs. The bombers used to lighten their load in order to save fuel returning over the North Sea, and this was where they dropped anything they hadn’t already loosed over London, then headed up into the clouds.


This shelter was the underground refuge where hundreds of people, people very much like me and my wife and my kids and my friends, fled and hid and prayed and ate and hoped, while all through the night their homes and families and lives were bombed at random.


And what I like about it today is that the pain is still there; and that not only has nobody scrubbed it off or painted over it; no-one’s put a plaque there either. No-one here has chosen to make it official. No-one has stapled a bomb to the side of it, or planted a flag next to it, or chosen to preserve it in any way. Not the mayor, not local historians, not the council, not the Tourist Board, not the National Trust.


The disused shelter, the paint on the bridge, can fend for themselves. Unlike the V2, they speak their own truth. The V2 has been polished, repainted, mounted and juxtaposed with a flag and a museum, and these things speak for it. They put it into a story: one they tell me is, if not mine, then that of the city I live in. But the story that bomb tells is mediated, told by a narrator who wants to sell me something, his/her version of history and of London. It sounds glorious and defiant and false. There’s money behind that version, money for flags and plaques, and I don’t like it. The encounter feels hollow and dishonest, however true and terrible those V2 nights were.


By contrast, the paint on the bridge still there simply because it is – like most of London. It’s messy, it’s unofficial, and it’s honest. Like the wildlife and weeds of Deptford (before its wharves were turned into executive show-homes for the corporate set), or Stratford’s barbed-wire-and-birdlife hinterland (before it was turned into a stadium, its roads paved with logos), this sign is just a survivor.


There’s no preservation order on it. When somebody wants to move it, build over it, knock it down, put their graffiti over it or scrub it off, they will.


And I can’t help but smile as I walk home and reflect that, for the past 72 years and again today, nobody has wanted to.



Analysis: Black PR, white noise: How grey goo is killing the news media (and the news media doesn’t seem to mind).

This is a post about a systemic failure in our media organisations when it comes to reporting, and it has nothing to do with Rupert Murdoch or plagiarism.


It starts in Soho and ends in Syria. If you’re a journalist, you’ll probably know it already, so apologies – though a couple of events recently, one of which I’ll cover below, have made me wonder just how many of us know either. I really only decided to rattle this out after realising, in the wake of the News International phone-hacking brouhaha and the case of Johann Hari, that certain things many in the media take for granted are both new to, and potentially quite unacceptable to, the broad public.


We can start off in the shallow end. In a past life, I worked (briefly) in the music press. Briefly for three reasons. First, the music press just isn’t the place for would-be investigative journalists. And the mid-2000s, when the record companies funding it were feeling the pinch and just wanted boosters, was probably not the time either.


Second, famous musicians and singers, let alone their handlers, tend to be terribly dull. They’re like footballers, brand people or – on this tragi-comic evidence – Ed Milliband. They have a party line, are petrified of the perceived power of the press to misquote/misrepresent. This makes them uptight, careerist, bland and repetitive. Only the odd one here or there is confident, experienced or chippy enough to throw caution to the wind and engage in any kind of genuine discussion. In that one respect (though I imagine there might be others, and I shiver) Marilyn Manson was a bit like Joey Barton.


But the third reason was the most dispiriting of all, and provides one neon-lit clue as to why sales of music magazines have dropped through the floor even faster than those of mags in many other sectors. Whatever you think of music reviewers (and I certainly did), at least one never used to doubt their sincerity. The knowledge that drunken arguments could be fought, friendships broken and alliances formed over the precise tone of a single album review, their agonies of integrity, their desultory pay and Keep The Aspidistra Flying existences, were salutary somehow. Reminders that they could be trusted.


Only, in the end, they couldn’t. Things changed, and by 2004, it wasn’t unusual for a call to the office (names changed of course) to go like this.


Record company guy: Hi John? Yeah, yeah, hi. Listen, Susie tells me you’re reviewing the [insert band name here] record. So, whaddyathink?
Reviewer: Well, I, um, I mean it’s OK. It’s probably two to three stars, to be honest; I mean, it’s a bit of a disappointment, but there are a couple of good…
Record company guy: OK, so here’s the thing. This is a big record for these guys, I mean you know the score what with last year’s reshuffle at the company, and they’re really bouncing back – I mean, feeling here about it is very big. It’s gotta be big.
Reviewer: What can I tell you? It’s three out of five tops, I honestly can’t give it more than that.
Record company guy: Right, right. Only I know we’ve got [insert name of global superstar band/singer]’s big album coming up in September, and I’m going to call your publisher and say that this really isn’t the kind of sympathetic environment we can place the cover story I know you guys need from us. So let’s say you give this four stars…


And so on. The conversation would often end badly, the reviewer would cling to his integrity, the editor would make soothing noises to the reviewer about not having to change his copy, and then the publisher (the guy who deals with the ads and holds the budget) would come and meet the editor, and then a more positive review would run. (Think back to the last major comeback from an established star. The review told you that yes, they’d been in the doldrums and the past few albums had been poor, water-treading exercises. But this was their best since their landmark album X. Not for years have they had so much energy, drive, creative spark etc. So you bought the record, and it was rubbish. And then you remembered, hadn’t the past few albums been reviewed in exactly the same terms, peddling exactly the same line. Now sigh.)


Creeping grey goo
This grey goo of PR- and lobby-driven content clogging up the channels (person A reports something they believe to be true to person B, only to have person C intercept and subvert the message) is something we might expect in the entertainment journalism world, where everybody has to cozy up and celebrities are the plucked’n’primped magic geese nobody wants to kill.


But if the recent scandals around News International, phone hacking, Harigate, ‘blagging’ and the fall of the House of Murdoch has proven anything, it’s how naïve we are about how our agendas and messages, are clogged and subverted by the same goo. (One might point out that the Government’s own agenda has been similarly clogged; only for a record company calling a reviewer, read a red-top editor calling a ministerial aide.)


Yet for all that it happens in countless newsrooms and reports every day, nobody talks, much less writes, about it.


One problem is that, while phone hacking makes great, name-driven headlines (Brooks! Clifford! Sienna! Cameron! Coogan!), and the shoddy work of Johann Hari became the lightning conductor of the whole plagiarism/cut/paste debate, the creeping grey goo of PR influence lacks a focal point.


The other problem is of course that pretty much everyone in the media rank and file (and I can think of dozens of reasons to include myself in that) is in some way complicit.


Perhaps the most worrying thing is that those who may not be complicit – good, honest people the people at the very top of the journalistic tree whose fame and authority puts them in a position to make a difference – appear not to have a clue. They are like the tyrant in the Russian fable who asked his footman why every single town and village his country smelled of fresh paint. Yesterday, in a tweet that (judging by the replies and retweets) many lower down the journalistic food chain appear to have felt was a spoof, renowned campaigning journalist George Monbiot (@GeorgeMonbiot) tweeted the following thundering outburst: “Samsung: did you authorize your PR people to try to bribe journalists to promote your products? Is this standard practice?”


Cue hollow laughter. (It gets hollower.)


How to kill a story, drown a protest, or start a coup
OK, chest cleared. We all know (except dear George M) most of our our pages and channels are taken up with bought, pushed or donated PR content, one way or another. Nearly every report you see from Somalia, Pakistan, or any war- famine-hit or disaster-zone comes courtesy of an “embedded” reporter. Embedded means they are there as the guest of an organisation on the ground – usually an aid or military organisation. This is a popular choice for reporters for many reasons. Chief among them is that the organisation on the ground has armoured 4x4s, secure accommodation and interpreters, and travelling unembedded means going alone and unsupported. But it’s also because when you travel embedded, most of the costs will usually be picked up by the organisation hosting you. The reason for this is that they can help form the reporter’s story. Go with NGO A and you will see what that NGO considers it important you see. Go with the UN and you will gain a valuable insight into their operations, and their agenda. This will become your story. And because of this, the real story – as in Somalia – goes unreported. The reason for the conflict, the famine, remains obscure. And nothing changes. But at least the paper, broadcaster or magazine saves budget.


But even this is relatively innocent. Only a fool would claim the UN or aid organisations wanted to obscure the root causes of the conflict or catastrophe, even if it is often a by-product of their methods.


What I really want to talk about is the other kind of purpose-built PR-driven content that not only swamps lifestyle coverage, but is beginning to – or at least trying to – to dictate the hard news agenda.


A friend of mine worked for many years as a PR without ever giving away a freebie or inviting anyone to the races. His job was to be a story killer, and story killing is one of the fastest growing sectors in the media.


How does it work? Easy. A client of yours has a vested interest, a secret or a cause. Someone else – a rival, ex-lover, politicians, the law, anyone – is about to go public in opposition to it. You generate “volume”. Not a counterargument necessarily, not a rebuttal, but volume. Noise. It might be noise about them, or about their cause, or a case study showing (anecdotally of course) that your way is best. It might even be noise about something completely different, which you’re pretty sure will create enough confusion or uncertainty (or just make the subject bothersome enough for researchers) that the original story no longer feels clear. It will be dropped, or postponed, which amounts to the same thing. You have killed your story: polluted its access channels with low-quality blather.


Even the way news is commissioned and debates are structured plays into the hands of this invisible sector of ‘private suppliers’ of content – PRs, lobbyists or pressure groups. The (otherwise excellent) Al-Jazeera has a policy of giving equal weight to all voices on the political spectrum, summed up in the channel’s motto: “The opinion. And the other opinion.” It tends to mean, as British journalist Hugh Miles details in his exhaustively researched book on the channel, that producers of a report on, say, lunar geology are compelled to seek equally weighted contributions from those who say the moon is made of cheese, we never went there anyway, and/or it’s an affront against God. In the quest for balance and fairness, truth and objectivity are lost.


Closer to home, screenwriter and microblogger Graham Linehan recently laid into the BBC Radio 4 flagship news programme Today for its attempt to (as he saw it) ambush him with an opposing voice, and turn an interview about a new play he’d written into an oppositional dialogue more suited to political campaigning. Elsewhere, Bad Science campaigner Ben Goldacre has detailed many hundreds of instances in which journalists, editors and producers give a platform to quacks, fraudsters and chartalans peddling misleading and often downright dangerous “alternative” views on medicine in the name of editorial balance.


Of course, those behind the format are mostly well-meaning enough. In these times of balanced coverage, they want to avoid accusations of bias; of spouting the official, or “establishment” line and denying dissenters a voice. (Though there is also the slightly harder-nosed motivation that by including more viewpoints and speakers in any discussion, you get to pull in more viewers/listeners/readers, be more SEO friendly, and get more talked about by more interest groups. Again, just like the music press really: if you have an R’n’B coverstar, you’d damn well better make garage rock your main supporting story, and vice-versa).


But while the motivations behind the format may be innocent, those of the parties who exploit this tendency in the format are sometimes less so. When the Chinese authorities censored media coverage in the wake of the recent disastrous Weizhou high-speed train crash, microbloggers using Sina Weibo, one of the two services analogous to Twitter, quickly found ways to outstrip and erode the censors’ blackouts and DDOS. A Google search this morning for weibo train crash threw up first one, then three reports from large media channels – the Financial Times, the New York Times and the Globe and Mail – as top results. Beneath them, however, were two ‘reports’ from China Media Communications, a “Social media blog covering latest trends and news from Chinese cyberspace”. This news site’s reports deflate and deflect critiques of the Chinese authorities, playing on claims of Western media bias against poor China, and western bloggers waiting only for a chance to attack China itself, rather than showing genuine concern for the victims. One concludes: “Of course the reason for the crash has be be identified and addressed but […] shouldn’t we be looking beyond criticism of China?”


I saw it, and it seemed odd that this report from an unknown news portal, in which there were precious few facts and not much news, could remain at the top of the Google rankings for so many days as a corrective to the “criticism of China” in the biased old Western FT and New york Times. In fact, the site appears to be an astroturf blog – that is, a site run by a larger organisation to gove the impression of ‘grass-roots’ blogging – from a London-based company called Newland Public Relations, whose client base is largely Chinese, and in no small measure government related. They offer many media and PR services, among them crisis communications, Government communications, media briefings, media monitoring, online crisis management, political strategy, and social media management and monitoring. It’s tempting to speculate on its motives, and the reasons for its oddly high ranking. What is beyond doubt is the way its claim the water. Not a great deal; just enough to create a plurality of angles; to create babble, or debate, around events following the train crash and what appears to be a ham-fisted media crackdown by the Chinese authorities.


And if Newland PR has been commissioned by a government to disrupt criticism, it would not be alone. Those trying to follow events unfolding in Syria on Twitter by following the #Syria hashtag of late will have noticed two things: first, virtual busloads of trolls arriving to abuse, mock and threaten anyone tweeting on the revolution there. Second, the arrival of spambots, clogging the hashtag with useless and nonsensical chatter and slogans, to the point where timelines are polluted and people switch off. According to an excellent investigation published this month by Global Voices Online, the trolls are the work of pro-Assad security service operatives; the second, of a Bahrain-based PR company, Eghna Developement and Support, which claims to provide “political campaign solutions.” Their accounts (there are several) tweet every two minutes under the hashtag in what appears to be an attempt to drown out the hashtag with spam. Anas Qtiesh, the Global Voices investigator, reports: “Instead of generating bad PR by blocking websites or solely relying on going after online activists […] the regime at first attempted bullying and intimidation online by seemingly independent twitter accounts […] Now, they are effectively diluting the discussion and making it much harder to find any info about the protests by bombarding the popular relevant hash tags with badly disguised spam.”


You’ll recognize the tactic from the smoking lobby (whose mock-constructive “We need more research” stalled anti-smoking measures for decades) and the alternative medicine crew.


While I was writing Outlaws Inc., I came across a report entitled “Ras Al-Khaimah: A Rogue State Within The UAE?” published by US lobbying and PR firm Mercury Communications LLC. The report attempted to ‘link’ the current rulers of the tiny Emirate with nefarious plots in Iran, alleged Russian gunrunner Viktor Bout, and much more besides. It looked the part, and was taken up by the US media. Its release coincided with the illegal extradition of Bout, aka “The Merchant of Death” to New York to face gunrunning charges. For Ras Al-Khaimah – a pretty peaceful minnow emirate, with whom the US has enjoyed good relations for many years – a very public link to guys like this, in the minds of US media and congressmen, was a disaster. It should come as no surprise that the report was issued on behalf of on behalf of its foreign principal His Highness Sheikh Khalid bin Saqr Al Qasimi, and that the Sheikh is a disgruntled member of the Emirate’s royal family, who believes the throne to be rightfully his.


The report was full of vague, self-referential links, assertions that didn’t stand up, and rumour that appeared in precious few other places. I called Mercury LLC repeatedly for more than a month to try and get some background on their report, but they consistently stonewalled before apparently panicking and denying they’d distributed the release. (Guys, take your letterhead off next time.)


Still, it won’t surprise you if I tell you that the report was taken at face value quite a lot – at least until The Guardian looked closely and found it to be an attempt to generate US backing for a coup the deposed Sheikh and his PR team were planning. They needed to ensure that, if they mounted the coup, just enough fuzziness, enough grey goo and white noise had been created around the incumbent regime, that the US would hold off intervening. Judgement would be suspended. the two-star thumbs-down would become a non-committal three or four.


This noise, in the end, takes away the very notion of consensus, let alone unanimity. Reporting a popular movement, a fact or an event is very different to reporting a clamour, a debate, noise around a topic. Editors sense the absence of a story, and either stay away or suspend coverage until a clear ‘good guy’ emerges.


Of course, the fact that I’m writing this about the Chinese and Syrian incidents mean that noise doesn’t always work. Nor does compromise. But it works enough of the time to be worth trying. After all, it’s a good story sells. But not always a true one.

Analysis: Death, dollars and déjà vu in famine-hit Somalia

Update, October 2011: This is the July 2011 post that spawned the recent CNN documentary. It appeared two weeks later in modified form on the Huffington Post.


Famine declared by the UN in the Shabelle region of Somalia. Mogadishu in a state of “gun-blasted anarchy”. Aid floods in – but its effects are patchy. The supply chain is plagued by corruption, schisms, distribution problems, gunmen, and the deadly business logic that makes looting humanitarian supply lines easier and more profitable than harvesting from the fields nearby where food lies rotting.

Welcome to the news, second time around. For the above is not, in fact, a sketch lifted from today’s foreign pages – through in almost every detail, it is the same – but from a feature by Brian Johnson-Thomas in the October 18th, 1992 edition of British newspaper The Observer.

The picture the 19-year-old report paints is worthy of Hieronymous Bosch or Joseph Heller – humanity trapped in a Hell of its own schismatic thinking, short-termism and avarice. Still, while most of the story could have come from today’s news, some things have changed. For despite the continuing scarcity of food, justice and medicine for Somalis, some products – and products that have quickly become daily necessities – have got far, far cheaper. These daily necessities are guns. And those guns are the key to understanding the circular, Boschian absurdity of the scenes unfolding before us on the evening news.

Back in 1992, the price of an AK-47 in Somalia was “just under $75”. Today, in common with Afghanistan, Pakistan and many parts of West Africa, the price has tumbled to around $25. And unlike (say) policemen, traffic lights, teachers, sanitation, functioning schools, hospitals, government and shops – unlike any of the signs and symptoms of civil society, in fact – these weapons are everywhere. They are within reach of anyone with a family farm, home or business. Anyone with well-paid or well-connected friends, in government, in the rebel or criminal gangs that proliferate with the cash that arrives. Anyone with contacts or clients in that fattest of prizes, the aid supply chain.

In situations like this, of course urgently required food, medicine and shelter are the focus of the aid industry. But that industry’s workers, suppliers, transporters, fixers and execs bring with them the one thing that – if you can get a piece of it – not only puts you (and those you favour) at the front of the queue for food and care. It also gives you access to those missing pieces in the Somali jigsaw: a voice, influence, and justice, albeit of a summary kind. Because money means you can join the weapons merry-go-round.

The anarchy-disaster-aid-money-weapons-anarchy-disaster loop is self-sustaining. Dutch journalist Linda Polman calls it the “crisis caravan” in her book of that name. “No conflict ever stopped because the combatants ran out of weapons,” former World Bank senior committee member, Venezuelan minister and Foreign Policy editor Moisés Naím told me last year, while I was researching the deadly trade in Russian-made arms for my book Outlaws Inc. “If you have the money, the guns will appear.”

And make no mistake, Somalis – or rather, certain people in Somalia – are no strangers to foreign money. The stop-start floods of international aid dollars provide the lucky few with personal riches beyond words, and feed a growing shadow-economy that only can’t be called ‘black market’ because there’s no ‘white market’ left for it to undermine or oppose.

The coastal waters, too, are often literally awash with cash, as strongboxes packed with millions of unmarked dollars dropped to pirates from the skies to obtain the release of ships and crews often come to grief on impact with the water, their green-backed cargo borne ashore by the waves. This cash from the developed world does not arrive without consequences – either for the next ship and crew taken and held to ransom, or for Somalis themselves, victims of an unstable local economy in which the arrival of $20 million in ransom money can inflate prices a hundred-fold in an hour, then cause localized economic crashes as it disappears again. In my book, I detail the way in which ransoms for ships hijacked by pirates are dropped by ex-Soviet transport planes and their crews, as the behest of underwriters and insurers keen to get their kidnapped boat back for $20 million rather than cough up $100 million to the owner on a replacement-new-for-old basis. I also describe the ways in which the drops are made, through a network of international blue-chips and charter agents, cargo airlines and fixers.

The fact that this money goes towards the purchase of assault rifles and rocket launchers (typically Russian-made Kalashnikovs and Strelas favoured by the pirates and Al-Shabab alike) should come as no surprise. These men are not Robin Hoods. They do not distribute their booty to the poor. Much of what they make is reinvested into the tools of their chosen trade: Russian-made assault weapons, terror in neighbouring countries (such as the World Cup blasts in Kampala, Uganda, organised by Al Shabab, with whom many of the pirates have a casually collaborative relationship sustained by their mutual pursuit of money) and the selective blindness of the authorities.

This brings us back to those humanitarian flights. The fact is, many carry illicit arms as well as aid, and others drop parachute-ready strongboxes full of crisp unmarked dollar bills, courtesy of insurance giants on Wall Street, the City of London and elsewhere, on their inbound journeys. High-demand goods, freshly minted cash, and AK-47s, on the same flights into a country in the grip of civil war. This, to quote one arms-trafficking monitor I spoke to recently, is “a dirty little secret in [our] world.”

Then again, to suggest the aid agencies and UN, the men who bring the cash and relief supplies in and the people who distribute it, are all simple angels of mercy may be naive too. The blindness many well-meaning outsiders display in the face of their own complicity is staggering now, as it was 19 years ago. And its description reads just as fresh. Back in 1992, in the report at the head of this entry, Johnson-Thomas wrote: “Ubiquitous gunmen control every aspect of life in Somalia and there is no sign that the supply of arms is drying up… Since every visitor – be he aid worker, UN official or journalist – has to hire his own bodyguards from there same gunmen, it is essential to get their support even to travel to the gun market.”

I am watching the footage from today’s news now. Footage of starving families. Aid workers imploring the world to sit up, take notice, give, do something. Analysts calling for Al Shabab to lift its decree banning foreign aid. Al Shabab claiming reports of a famine are “pure propaganda”. And I ask, what if – as in Ireland under the British, as in 1980s Ethiopia, as in early 1990s Somalia – the nuances are being lost amid the noise? What if the truth is, the economics of the disastrous interplay of rebels, desperate people, aid agencies, the UN, media and government, has turned a drought into a spiralling vortex of dollars and death?

The report finishes. The gunmen are nowhere to be seen. Nor are the pirates. Nor the aircrews, fixers, looters, corrupt officials.

But to ignore them – to talk about famine and relief in isolation – is perhaps the biggest, blackest, most deadly lie of all. Only a BBC report from Somalia today, 23rd July 2011 contains the barest hint of the fatal cloud of dollars and déja vu that is laying the country and its people to waste: “Most Western aid agencies quit Somalia in 2009 following al-Shabab’s threats, though some say they have managed to continue operating through local partners.”

Until the focus shifts from aid alone to exactly who those “local partners” are, and the part they play in the Somali tragedy, we may as well switch off the news, power down and keep reading, over and over again, our one yellowing copy of The Observer, dated October 18th, 1992.

Update: an edited version of this article with links to the book’s Amazon page has since appeared on the Huffington Post.

News: Outlaws Inc to be serialised in next month’s Men’s Journal

Men’s Journal, the top-selling quality US men’s lifestyle magazine from Wenner Media, is publishing a free 7,000-word extract from Matt’s latest book ‘Outlaws Inc’ – out at the end of August in the USA and Canada – in its next edition, onsale August. The magazine, part of Jan Wenner’s legendary Rolling Stone media empire, is packed with real-life adventure content, and is perhaps best known worldwide for breaking the story of error and tragedy that lead to the Space Shuttle Columbia disaster, and for being the first magazine in space.

Reviews: Outlaws Inc hits nerve in Dubai and the Gulf

With the trial of so-called Merchant of Death Viktor Bout (above, and profiled in Outlaws Inc) approaching, sensitivities around his erstwhile ops base in the UAE are high. So it’s been great to get backing from two of the Arabian Gulf’s main English-language publications. While Esquire’s Middle East edition ran a larger feature and interview with me in its August edition, quality paper The National ran a really nice main review which, though carefully worded (and with the ruling families of Dubai, Sharjah and Ras Al Khaimah in particular anxious to preserve the hush around their relationship with Bout, who can blame them?) came down on the side of disclosure, saying: “Potter brings an immensely complex story in for a gentle landing. Outlaws Inc. is a thorough, well-sourced account of how the fly-by-night transport trade works.” Thanks all!

Great early reviews for Outlaws Inc.!

The first (great) reviews are coming in for Outlaws Inc.

Campaigning Times journalist Brian Johnson-Thomas says it’s “the ultimate proof that the truth is far stranger than fiction”, while Sean Rayment, Defence Correspondent of The Daily Telegraph and author of Bomb Hunters, this year’s hit non-fiction book about UXB disposal experts in Afghanistan, calls it “An explosive read, full of heart-thumping excitement – and all the more terrifying for being true.”

Dr Mark Galeotti, Academic Chair, SCPS Center for Global Affairs at New York University and one of the world’s foremost authorities on Russia and organized crime, calls it “a great book!” and adds: “It’s all very well to know that there is a global trade in illicit goods, and a small contingent of aviators willing to fly anything anywhere, but this is the only one inside story on the post-Soviet flyboys who represent such a key element in this hidden world. In all their boozy, devil-may-care glory, Matt Potter’s unique book doesn’t just offer up a fascinating tale of cratered runways, no-questions-asked drops, midnight flits, shell companies, hidden compartments and duct-taped aircraft of these men, it also tells us something about the modern world, and how for all society’s efforts to make it regulated and respectable, there will always be those who thrive by finding ways to use, abuse and ignore the rules.”

Peter Danssaert of the UN Security Council’s Panels of Experts on Liberia, the DRC and Somalia/IPIS, calls it “A brilliantly told story”, noting of the airmen that, “these men are expendable cogs in a larger machine. The laughs and action along the way make the book’s overall sadness even more poignant.”

My heartfelt thanks to you all!