The Wire comes to Blackheath

By jove that nice Mr Grayling is right!

The Wire comes to Blackheath

During my three-decade-long association with this once genteel corner of suburban south east London, I’ve seen Blackheath Village inhabited in turn by hash-toking bohemian musicians, artists and writers (fond, yet hazy memories), loadsamoney Thatcherite yuppies, massed estate agents, and, most lately, city finance types who’ve succeeded in fucking up the economy good and proper. I suspect that the next wave of immigrants will include latte-drinking methamphetamine dealers.

Blackheath is going to the dogs, and something must be done before it’s too late.

Vote Conservative, and bring on the revolution!

This afternoon I shall go up onto the heath bearing my press card, and ask a representative of the Climate Camp which yesterday swooped on my manor to explain how a bunch of green anarchists can justify fencing off a section of ancient common land.

John Ball will be spinning in his graves.