Alan Coleman

I was thinking about Sgt Steve Roberts this morning, the soldier from the 2nd Royal Tank Regiment who died in Iraq because he didn’t have body armour to protect him.

What upsets me most about his death is the waste involved, his life was simply squandered due to a lack of resources. He didn’t die leading his men in battle or trying to save someone’s life, he died because a man in a suit somewhere decided that he didn’t want to afford Sgt Roberts’s regiment a basic level of personal protection.

And because money is spent on more important things, like a new sign for the Deputy Prime ministers Office for example, people like Sgt Roberts continue to perform unimaginably dangerous jobs without the support they deserve. And he did so not because he was ordered, but because that was the sort of bloke he was. More importantly, that’s the sort of people they are.

So not only has a life cut needlessly short, but a regiment is now short of one of its most important ranks, Sergeant. The people young soldiers and officers turn to for advice, safety and recognition. The bloke that looks after everyone and says simple things like, “Well done lads, get your heads down and meet me back here in two hours.”

We know that soldiers are made of different stuff, and more often than not perform way beyond the call of duty. But it is that precise quality that allows others to take advantage of them in the worst way possible. Consider here the Metropolitan Police. The idea of Jon Reid asking them to venture out onto the mean streets of St Johns Wood without body armour is unimaginable. It wouldn’t happen, and rightly so, but the army have always been an easy target for accountants and politicians. Whether its trying to shave off a few thousand from next years budget, or posing for tabloid photographs with real men, they’re an easy touch.

Over the last few days, in the run up to Christmas, I’ve also been thinking about his wife Samantha and what she’ll be doing whilst we’re all spending time with our nearest and dearest. What will go through her head when she wakes up and realises again, that her husband isn’t there to wish her a Merry Christmas.

And what of Tony Blair? Consider what will be going through his head as he gets ready for church, the good Christian that he is.

We went round our friends Becky and Roger last night, they live north of the river in Turnpike Lane, a world of proper kebab houses and gigantic pubs. It was a great evening of lager, Champagne and Wild Boar sausages, topped off by a nice little drive around the North Circular.

Mandy does all the driving because my levels of concentration are so bad that behind a wheel I become an accident waiting to happen. I’m also prone to the odd bit of road rage. So now I just sit there and gaze blissfully out of the window, usually bent slightly forward with my mouth hanging open, like a mong. Sometimes I give a running commentary of the surrounding area, which I think Mand quite enjoys despite her protests to the contrary.

“Please! Please, just stop talking!”

There’s plenty to see on this journey. The joy of the Blackwall Tunnel, then over Hackney Cut and past the old Matchbox factory next to the marshes. Always, always something different to look at. Then onto the North Circular, guarded by its unfashionable office blocks from the 1960s. Greying and stained, the relegation to storage duties being the final insult, or nail in the coffin.

On past F.R. Shadbolt & Sons, with their factory and signage straight out of a post war new town advertisement. The sign facing the oncoming traffic reads: Veneer of the week – Cheerio Cherry. Seriously, who the hell needs Pet of the Month when we’ve got Veneer of the Week on the North Circular. Fantastic.

Past the Hospital up on the embankment to the right. I helped lay the footings for that place a few years ago, filthy and freezing work, up to my knees in fucking mud whilst that smug fat bastard smoked Henri Wintermans in his Beamer.

It’s all to be seen again on the way back, but this time from the other side. We end up taking a slightly different route home through Beckton. I was struck by the rows of boarded up flats and empty communities. The Beckton Arms looking a little defiant from behind the fence, wide eyed in the wake of change and Magners Irish Cider.

Home to the great news that The General is dead, and that the Widow is deeply saddened. The world is now a slightly better place.

A few weekends ago myself and Mand spent a day in a place that I’ve returned to many times since I was a child, the Suffolk coastal town of Aldeburgh. Apart from the phoney art galleries that have shamelessly replaced the bucket and spade shops, it’s changed very little over the years. It still has the same sleepy pace, the seaside smells of old varnish and a somewhat direct connection to childhood.

For me Aldeburgh has always had a strange feel and it’s something I can’t put my finger on. I don’t know whether it’s the remote nature of the place, the strange 1950s look or the statue of the small dog, it’s just a little bit weird. Maybe it’s the beach that we spent days charging around on when we were little, the huge expanse of stones that disappears northwards and somehow draws you away to a forgotten place. The old wooden fishing boats and peeling paint, hung over from a time before the screens turned working men into morons. Turn southwards towards the town and the waves create a mist through which the lonely beach fishermen can just be seen.

The sea is a break from the relentless aggression of modern living, it won’t judge you or try to screw you for a token profit, and its mere size is enough to command a bizarre respect. Hence the reason that we’re happy just to sit there and look at it.

Sometimes it makes me feel more than a little nervous, although strangely safe at the same time. However with the sound of the seagulls and waves, there can surely be no more peaceful place to spend a spring or autumn afternoon, add chips and a can of Lilt to achieve the ultimate in smug.

Okay so it’s become a bit of a haunt for the Volvo brigade and their packs of Labradors, but underneath the Sunday supplement veneer it’s still essentially the same place. Stones that stretch for miles, huge skies, brown water and shipping.

This is one of the best beaches I’ve ever been to.

The City of London is a dark place. Dark cobblestone alleys underneath dark towers of glass. Long dark coats of wool against dark leather and cheap brass. The dark wail of sirens and the pointed noses of dark self importance, dirty shoes on chipped marble. The dark smells a foul blend of urine and insatiable greed, sandwich fillings and decaying flesh. The air hangs heavy with the filth that settles on every surface, discarded cigarettes, the detritus of fast food and wasted human lives.

It fucking, stinks.

This morning some cleaners demonstrated for a fair wage outside UBS, an investment bank. Small angry foreigners bounced their loud hailers from one steel and glass sided street to another. An overweight man in a long dark coat talks to bored policemen outside revolving doors. He points and laughs, they chew and fold their arms. This is the beast of inequality in all its glory, an overweight vortex swarming with the Starbucked piggy eyed minions of gluttony. Immorality counterbalanced by a shrug of the shoulders and a vague nod at, ‘Corporate Social Responsibility’.

This is one of the worst places I’ve ever set foot, let alone worked. Tomorrow I’ll be telling you about one of the best.