There are people in the Foreign Office who confide privately that they believe Terry Waite is dead – seized as a spy in the wake of the Irangate scandal, tortured to extract information about his links with Oliver North and finally brutalised beyond endurance.
Stories from 1989:
Philosophers of the future may look back on Britain in the 1980s as an intellectual slaughter house and see the Prime Minister with her cleaver, chopping through the tender beliefs of her victims, and they may find, perhaps to their surprise, that the wretched remains lying discarded around her ankles belong not to the socialists whom she tried so hard to herd into the abattoir, but to liberal intellectuals who wandered in by mistake.
Danny Carey could hardly believe they had shot him. He could hardly even believe they were policemen. He just lay there, bleeding everywhere, with this strange feeling in his legs, as if they were being pumped up with air or something, thinking he must be dying and waiting for someone to do something – call an ambulance or fetch a doctor or just tell him what the hell was going on.
If ever the manadrins of Whitehall are tempted to come clean and offer up a Freedom of Information Act in this country, they need only look westwards to Washington to remind themselves of the endless pain this will cause them. The terrible tale of J Edgar Hoover is a case in point.
Ernest Hemingway believed that bullfighting was a great and uplifting art, a sacred ritual in which courage, honour and death were all perfectly blended into the most tragic and most inspiring of spectacles. But Ernest Hemingway never saw a bullfight on a Friday night in Frontignan.
It was not until the notorious Night of Bliss and Organic Excitement was about to run its controversial course that the real truth finally dawned.
The Westminster Abbey Game is a contest for two teams. On one side are the Wrist Slappers, who may be male or female, are invariably elderly and grey-haired and usually wear conservative clothes from the 1940s. Then there are the Foreigners, lots of them, and preferably draped in plenty of photographic hardware.
The Scotsman April 1989 The old sheriff of Montgomery County, Ben Hicks, had an answer for everything. A black man had just been burned alive in front of his office in the courthouse square in the middle of Conroe while a crowd of hundreds of white men, women and children looked on. The sheriff himself […]
The Guardian, April 1989 Eleanor Hudson had nothing but a handful of flowers. The guard at the White House gate could see that. He had dark glasses, a gun on one hip, a night stick on the other, and a big gold badge on his chest. He told her to back off and started closing […]
It was only afterwards – after the dust had settled and all the reporters and supporters had gone home – that Bert Ammermann finally calmed down enough to realise what he had done.