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The Times September 2010 - 1

The Times September 2010 - 2

Chris Mullin Daily Mail Article

Boris Johnson interview 1998

The Jones Family

Michael

Chronology

Hedgeman - The Book

The Berlin Wall

Into the Roaring Nineties

1991 Stanton Turns Really Nasty

Annus Horribilis

The End Of The Annus But Not The Horribilis

The Judgement

The Hand Of Peace

Fame

The Big One

No Carte Blanche

Come On Stanton Pay Up

April Fool

Niniteen Ninety Seven

A Little Help From The Lord

APRIL FOOL 1996

The Esther Show was scheduled for 5.30pm on Friday, March 29th: as good a time as any to prepare the nation for what was to come, or perhaps six million of it. As I left the mediation room, the frustrated words of the gentleman who had done his utmost followed me out:
"You might have come up with that upfront." (The price of a Stanton agreement was £46,000.)
I smiled at some employees with quizzical looks; they were plainly aware of the drama. The Bournville Garden Centre was a couple of minutes from the Village Trust Offices, and the genial proprietor was at his welcoming best, thrilled that I had taken up his offer to cut the hedge for free.
"You are welcome to put your board up outside for the world's media, but don't expect to display outside the Stantons."
He looked a little oddly at me. I explained my efforts, told him about the Esther show, my press release and my invitations to scores of VIPs; the name Bournville would have a special resonance. I left with:
"See you at 11 am 1st April for the grand cut - better come early, we start smack on time."
I wrote to PTS to tell him the time, the contractors and the height: twelve feet.
A couple of days later a letter dropped through the letterbox from his solicitor, Abe Lincoln. I hadn't had one of those for years; he had been corresponding and chatting with Ray, my solicitor. His client, he wrote, was very upset at my refusal to have further discussions. Then came the bully-boy tactic: he was very concerned that I had accused him, Abe, of paying a witness to lie in court. Unless I responded by close of business, he would proceed with legal action.
I copied it at once and sent it to the Trust with a covering letter, pointing out that mediation was absolutely confidential, and asking whether my mediator recalled me saying those defamatory words. His reply came by return and let me answer Abe within his deadline: he had no recollection of me saying them. Of course I had no intention of telling Abe that. It reassured me, because I have always thought the thoughts. Contemplating two or three years defending myself in court was terrifying, but the only witness was on my side.
I replied in my own hand. My printer was nlq (near letter quality) and produced an acceptable letter, but it gobbled printer ribbons by the half dozen. Abe, like his ilk, bullied me deliberately to cause stress. The Stantons, his top clients, had led him to believe I was an ordinary working-class prole from the lower echelons of society (the local residents being from the higher echelons), and a prole never gets the privilege of a business letter. Abe would correspond with my solicitor, who would charge me a heavy fee; it is a quid pro quo arrangement between solicitors. I had told both sides I was representing myself, except on the recovery of costs.
So I reverted to the style I'd adopted four years earlier: four sides of A4 in closely written tiny script, no white spaces, setting out my arboricultural endeavours and the judgements and court orders that touched his expert witness. It took me an hour; I knew it all by heart. Abe would take nearly as long studying it, with a magnifying glass if his sight was less than excellent, before he proposed any action or further threat. Throughout those four eye-straining sides I never admitted or denied his accusations. I photocopied them before posting.
Next day big brother arrived: a truly massive man, tall, broad and beefy, and trembling with fear. He had encountered Paul Terry Stanton, younger sibling of the garden centre boss and controller of its arboricultural wing, who had threatened him direly:
"If you cut my father's trees he will die; I shall sue you and make sure you lose your business."
I did not plead with this colossal creature. I did not say "Your brother pleaded for the job", nor "I was promised only days ago - it is grossly inconvenient". I said merely:
"You must do as you think best - thank you for telling me in person."
I phoned every tree firm in the Yellow Pages and eventually struck lucky; the guy came to see me. I told him the problem and my rejection by Bournville Garden Centre, which only made him keener. I informed Paul Terry about the new fella. I don't know whether threats or bribery were used, but I had to try again.
This time Barry came, from West Side Forestry, his own business. He was very good and took pride in his work. I told him everything. I wanted it properly booked and invoiced with VAT. If the Stantons wanted the debris returned, as it was their property, it was to be taken round the block and placed carefully on their front lawn, not thrown back over my side. He was most understanding.
I kept to my obligation and told Stanton the trees were to be cut to twelve feet; that was the figure Abe took to the district judge. I had actually arranged with Barry to cut at fourteen feet, and higher still where the ground sloped. PTS rang and rang and threatened and threatened, then went out to his farm in Belbroughton the day before. According to Barry, PTS told him:
"No, I have promised Mr Jones and I always keep my word."
I had barely time to finish my press release, run off a couple of hundred photocopies, and buy envelopes and stamps. One copy went to the local police, with a reminder of my last hedge maintenance endeavours: the scaffold tower incident of 1989, and PTS's conviction for actual bodily harm in 1990. I enclosed the conviction and last December's court order. An officer phoned back to say they would keep a close eye on proceedings but would show no visible presence.
The rest went to councillors I knew personally, BVT, everyone who had joined my campaign nationwide, and local media by name. Nationally: David Crabtree of Sky, Eric Macinnes of ITV, all the national papers, the Press Association, TV and radio news desks. They all gave extra coverage to Esther, a news item in herself. A couple of free local newspapers revelled in this sort of stuff.
On Friday, to take my mind off proceedings, I set the video with a new tape for BBC2 at 5.30pm, checked and rechecked it, went out walking, and meant to be back to watch. I didn't return until after five. The makers had tweaked the programme into position; they wanted it topical and had taken tremendous trouble to get the cutting done on the Monday, of all days April the first.
(Seven years later a partner of Ray's firm described me as "sophisticated and manipulative". He was not being nice; he went on to call me a liar and fraudster. Of course he was a bully, like his ilk, weighing the odds before libelling me to his co-professionals in restricted circumstances, desperate to disengage himself from responsibility in cheating me out of thousands of pounds. To "sophisticated and manipulative" I plead guilty; it was how I steered through the Scylla and Charybdis of the uncharted seas ahead. My reader will find me justified.)
Maureen had just returned from a medical meeting, confused and furious. Abe's representative on Earth, with his inevitable heavy, had been waiting outside in their car, according to the neighbours. They wanted to hand me an ultimatum in person; then, finding it had run out of time, and seeing Maureen come home, they rang the bell and handed it to her. I wished so much it had been me, because I would have refused it. I took it from her. It said:
"Unless you give us in writing an undertaking by close of business today, 29th March, we shall apply to the District Judge for an injunction on Monday 1st April. As a matter of courtesy we have sent a copy of this letter to your solicitor."
Courtesy my foot; it was bullying. They had come prepared to carry a signed statement back to their almighty. Now it was too late. Close of business had happened.
I switched on the telly just as the timer started the video, and saw the show. Maureen never has; she was far too stressed. We shopped for plenty of coffee, tea, milk, sugar and soft drinks.
We were lucky: April the first was a beautiful, warm, sunny spring day, the best of the year. Radio WM arrived before seven for the customary outside broadcast and didn't go away. Others followed and the road began to fill. We had to keep space for the contractors' lorry and shredder; they came early, as promised, which was a relief, because without them everybody might as well go home. I gave individual interviews, but by nine, with two hours still to go, things became hectic; I would start an interview and be called away.
In total we had six camera crews and thirty journalists. Maureen was, as ever, the energetic, generous hostess, and it was good to see willing helpers muck in: washing up, filling the kettle, making the tea and coffee and keeping the sustenance flowing. The good humour and camaraderie were wonderful to behold. I realised I had been talking to the Guardian reporter and felt rude, with so many demands, then found out she was Maggie O'Keane, journalist of the year. Maureen, an avid Guardian reader who loved her articles, was soon in close conversation, putting the woman's point of view on nasty neighbours.
I had to oversee the contractors as they set up their ladders: where, at what height, and in what position was the first cut to be? It had to be absolutely spot on. Then there was the beech hedge, well, trees now, covered by the injunction equally, and uncut for five years. Denis Harris had been filming on his home video since the beginning and gave me what he thought was a copy; the sound was fine but the picture was a blank white screen. The original will be valuable one day.
Cameramen, photographers and reporters walked round the block to the Stantons', but as the eleven o'clock deadline approached there was maximum attendance. I walked to the front into an impromptu press conference, TV cameras rolling, flashes continual. The press pack was itself a news item. Eric Macinnes outlined the whole process:
"This is the culmination - even the talks about talks have broken down."
He swung his microphone before me and asked a barrage of questions, and others joined in. Glancing at my watch, I said:
"Let's make our way to the scene of action."
Barry, in yellow fluorescent jacket, helmet and visor, had lodged himself in the trees, and a series of flashes showed he'd be on the front page of every newspaper. The hubbub stopped when my phone rang out: a cordless landline. The voice said:
"This is Ray; the Stantons have just been before the District Judge and he has refused their application for an injunction."
I turned towards Barry and put both thumbs up. The loud zip of his saw rang out; it stopped while he tugged out the cut branch, which crashed to the ground. I looked round and saw Councillor Mike Nangle grinning and waving. There was talk of a coffin on Stanton's front lawn, and the news would be on at one, though most would see it on the evening bulletin. Neither the old man nor his son appeared. The new wife and stepmother made the news by speaking through the flap of the letterbox, a vertical one set in the wooden frame beside the glass panel, which might present a problem for the editor. The Guardian carried the photograph as a large narrow strip down the left of the page. The conversation went thus:
Reporter: "Are you aware of what is going on?"
The 2nd Mrs Stanton: "Yes; they are cutting the trees."
Now the coffin. Realistically made, albeit in cardboard, it carried a plaque inscribed: "Farewell dear trees / That shieldeth us / From the evil presence beyond." It must have been prepared in the expectation that the injunction would be refused. What had their lawyers advised?
I was furious with Ray. I hadn't sent him the press release or told him my intentions; he no longer represented me except to recover costs. Of course Abe had written to him about the injunction application, even though I'd told him Ray was my solicitor only for costs. It would have been acutely embarrassing had the injunction been granted. The hearing was ex parte; I had done everything correctly. My mind had stewed over scenarios, the worst being Abe making a mad dash from the hearing with the writ to serve me before 11am. The next was Ray phoning with bad news when I wanted to start the job without knowing, and not be accused of ignoring it. But the sheer drama of that strident phone call before the silent, expectant assembly gave me great peace and relief, and looked brilliantly, deliberately planned. I cannot take credit for my later reputation as "sophisticated and manipulative". I don't know whether Ray charged me a fee; he never gave me an account, but went on asking for money, and got it.
Two strong young workmen gathered the pieces and dragged or carried them through the garage and flung them into the back of a lorry with a tow-bar, hitched to a trailer carrying a high-powered petrol shredder, so far unused. There was a lot more to cut and carry, but it was being done fast and efficiently. The drama was over; the male Stantons had not shown themselves; it was time for reporters, photographers and cameramen to head back. Suzanne Virdee of the Evening Mail and Maggie O'Keane were making arrangements:
"Don't call a taxi, I'll run you to the station."
I said sorry to Maggie for not giving her my time, but she was well pleased. They are excellent women, and the front-page reports and photographs were superb. They are my favourite journalists. The Guardian had certainly redeemed itself after its miserable report on the Court of Appeal hearing.
Barry came up with two pigeon eggs and said:
"I didn't show anyone these - they would have made an issue of it."
I was very, very grateful. I had voiced my anxiety about nesting birds to PTS early in his procrastination days, and he had answered:
"There is only one way you can safeguard the nesting birds."
There was some comfort: we were overrun with pigeons, huge and fat from gorging on gardeners' brassicas. They don't eat harmful insects, and their size and wing-flapping keep tits and finches from nesting, though they aren't predators.
The workmen were in the lorry cab, supping our tea and eating sandwiches, when the gaffer returned from a walk round to the Stantons'. He hadn't asked me, but I heartily approved. All the debris had been cleared and the garage and drive swept; that team did a complete job.
"I've just spoken to old man Stanton."
"You're a brave lad; someone had to remind him 'no April Fool' after twelve."
"No, I told him - I've got your property in my truck; where do you want it? And he said, 'stick it back where you stole it from', and he wasn't smiling."
I had written in my notice of intention that if directions for disposal were unclear, the contractors would be paid to dispose of the debris, with the total cost including VAT paid by me and claimed from Bernard Stanton. In the event he never paid any maintenance cost other than for the derisory removal of two feet in 1997, and he did that just to tease me.
Everyone had gone. It was exceptionally quiet and surprisingly tidy, inside and out. The dishwasher had done its job, and Maureen had even put away the cups, saucers, beakers, glasses and fruit drink bottles. It had been a hectic seven hours: food, tea and rest before the next onslaught. But on going into the living room, everything was light. We hadn't had so much for five years. There were ugly patches of bare stem where I had cut the trunks back to the boundary, but we could see clear blue sky, the sun shone from the right, and that hedge looked great. Barry was a skilled woodsman who had instinctively found the best places for his saw to keep the overall shape.
It was one o'clock. We switched on the BBC news and waited, and we came on towards the end; then the Midlands news gave a full report. All was recorded. Presenter Michael Colley finished his task and then rang; he wanted to do an outside broadcast for the evening news. I thought, what the hell had we been doing all morning? Satellite broadcasts were in their infancy, and a remark by Eric Macinnes made sense now: their satellite van, presumably their only one, was held for emergency use down south, where royalty was in crisis and always got priority.
Michael Colley arrived by car from Pebble Mill within minutes, to view the situation in situ so he'd understand what was on his monitor. He is an exceptionally nice guy. Maureen described witnessing the vilest racial prejudice at a supermarket checkout, and our guest had just experienced the same in an interview; we were astonished that the perpetrators thought others shared their prejudice. The conversation revealed all our neighbour aggro. As he left, the cameraman and technician arrived in the white van. They struggled to get a signal, gave up outside the house, then moved the van to the top of the croft, within fifty yards of PTS's house, and ran a thick cable down the pavement, taped over with sticky adhesive. It worked. Five years later, the whole saga would have been covered by satellite.
There was plenty of time to "arrange the furniture", with Michael Colley directing. The camera lined up with a garden table, chairs and the hedge. A bottle of wine and glasses was called for, but I disallowed it: it would have been ideal for painting the whole event as vandalism (the Stantons had always called me a vandal) carried out under the influence of drink. So we had a jug of orange juice, though the news still introduced us as "the Joneses having a glass of wine in their new garden".
Close to broadcast time, disaster struck and the line went dead. Midlands Today had to rearrange their whole schedule. Our TV was always going wrong, even with cable, so we went indoors to watch ourselves on the early evening news. Twenty minutes after the call, I set the video, we went outside and sat at the table, microphone wires fed up our jumpers. It was getting chilly, not comfortable for sitting out. This was a last fling from Pebble Mill; new technology was on its way, but true to type everything was done to achieve a perfect result. We heard Michael Colley clearly from the studio; then I felt my earpiece slipping. Keen not to spoil anything, I held my head rigidly still, which made me look as though I had a stiff neck.
"What advantage have you gained apart from the obvious light, which is obvious considering it is early evening?"
"Well, I cut back the trees to the boundary years ago, but it was still impossible to grow much whilst the hedge was so high. Now we have an extra eight-foot-wide strip along the length of our garden, which you can see is not very wide."
"What are you going to grow?"
"Do you know, we were just having that very lovely discussion."
The exhausting day was at an end; Maureen had already gone indoors. I said to the technician:
"Some stupid bastard unhitched the cable from the van."
"That would be Stanton junior, he lives by there - he's in your line of business: closed-circuit TV."
"Yes, I know him alright - he owes my father money."
Pete Spyby had posted his Evening Mail through our letterbox. We had seen the Stanton coffin on TV, but here it was on the front page of the local press. Suzanne Virdee had done us grand. It was only the harbinger of the national press in the morning. We had come out of it well, very well.