Dear Readers,
Good afternoon, and welcome to Off The Fence, a newsletter that we all enjoy putting together at the start of every week. Issue 15 is being daubed by the design team for a mid-April release. If you want to get a flavour of what it’s going to look like, then this classique track will give you an idea. We’ve commissioned some of the biggest names in the illustrative biz to make some beautiful artwork to accompany the plain old words. We’ve got Natalya Lobanova, Nishant Choksi, Davey Jones and John Broadley, and there’s another full-bleed map from Paul Cox coming too, this time of the fine port city that is Liverpool.
Now, there’s a little deal for newsletter readers today. If you subscribe right now, you will receive Issue 14 straight up, and a copy of Issue 13 too, as well as a pdf of the sold-out Issue 12. Yes, we are, once again, quite literally giving it away. You can hit up the shop page here and those mags will be shipped out promptly.
This week, we’ve got a bumper edition. We promised some readers a profile on GB News – and that will come soon. But we thought we’d lead with something more cheery: here’s a dispatch from the Donetsk frontline.
Among the Refuseniks
The city of Pokrovsk, until recently known as Krasnoarmeisk (‘Red Army’), is less than 50 kilometres from the front line in Ukraine’s Donetsk Region. From here roads lead directly to some of the most intense focal points of this conflict – Vuhledar, Avdiivka, Mariinka and of course Bakhmut.
The hotel we are staying in is full of soldiers on rotation from the front line. I get chatting to one of them while having a smoke outside. Anatoly*, 43, has a skinny frame and sunken, sad eyes. He has just returned from Bakhmut, and is en route to the hospital. This is the fifth time he’s had to go to hospital after brushes with artillery. The first four times he was less fortunate, ending up with shrapnel embedded in various parts of his body. He has even been shot in the stomach by a sniper, but the bullet lodged in his body armour after passing through the magazine of his Kalashnikov, leaving a perfectly circular hole. But after each of these terrifying injuries, Oleksiy was patched up and sent back to the front.
Anatoly is a Russian speaker from Luhansk Oblast, which has been under Russian occupation since 2014. His relatives are still there; they support the Russians, while he tries his best to kill as many of them as he can. He says he hasn’t talked to them for years. In spite of his age, he is already a grandfather. His kids live in Kyiv with their mother.
Anatoly’s stories about Bakhmut lend credence to its characterisation as one of the bloodiest battles on European soil since WWII. The Wagner Group, once the preserve of elite mercenaries, has been throwing wave after wave of poorly equipped convicts at the Ukrainian lines. Oleksiy recalls once facing off against around 70 of these convicts, who were charging across an open field like something out of Braveheart. He and his guys were outnumbered seven-to-one. When the dust settled, 70 bodies were lying in the field. There were no losses on the Ukrainian side.
Anatoly takes no pleasure in telling these stories, and I don’t get the impression that they’re embellished for my benefit. As we smoke, he laughs at me for shivering as a freezing wind blows in. ‘Is it cold?’ he says. ‘I didn’t notice’. At the front line, he sleeps in an open foxhole in sub-zero temperatures, often waking up covered in several inches of snow. All the army provided him with was a summer uniform, so he bought thermals out of his own pocket. He has purchased almost all of his gear himself, right down to his rifle. From time to time, vehicles are donated to his infantry platoon by private benefactors. Anatoly says they pose for photos with vehicles when they arrive, and send them to the donors to encourage further acts of largesse. Most of them have been destroyed within a few weeks. One pick-up truck, he says, was blown up only five hours after it arrived. They sent the photo anyway.
A little later, a homeless man wanders up to the van where we’re making pizzas for some soldiers and asks for some food. Anatoly tells him to fuck off. ‘If you want a hot meal, go down to the enlistment office.’ The homeless man, Sasha, says he is too old to enlist. ‘How old are you?’ asks Anatoly. Sasha says he’s 43. ‘You’re the same age as me. I’ve seen lads of 19, 20 blown up right next to me. They had their whole lives ahead of them. What’s your excuse? Now get the fuck out of my sight before I punch your lights out.’
We give Sasha a pizza anyway. Oleksiy isn’t having any, he only eats once a day. He has to keep this habit, he says, otherwise the hunger pangs will be unbearable when he gets back to the front.
Bakhmut is in the news; the Russians seem to be slowly winning – at enormous cost in lives. But while the Russians are mainly expending their convict cannon fodder, the Ukrainians are losing some of their best men. Many of Oleksiy’s brothers-in-arms are among them. With such unremittingly bleak conditions, it’s unsurprising that many are simply refusing to go back. Oleksiy estimates there are around 120 refuseniks in Pokrovsk alone. He doesn’t judge them. I ask if there are many civilians left in Bakhmut as the enemy closes in. ‘The only people left are the ones waiting for the Russians.’ he says, with some venom. ‘I don’t consider them civilians’. The implications of this go unspoken.
The next day at lunch, I see Anatoly sitting alone in a prohibition-era themed restaurant next to our hotel. This theme was prescient – the sale of alcohol has been completely banned in Donetsk Oblast since the war began. Anatoly has just got back from the hospital.
‘Clean bill of health.’ he says.
‘That’s great!’ I say.
‘So I’m heading back to the front this evening.’
Anatoly messaged me a few days later to ask if I could drum up some donations for night vision scopes and some recon drones. Since then, he has been offline for several weeks.
* Names have been changed
With Regards to the Case of Mr Martin
Our investigation into the multi-millionaire paedophile who bought a private school in Yorkshire is still, we are somewhat surprised to inform you, yet to be picked up by the national press. If you haven’t read it yet, you can do so here – it’s the most expansive and important story we’ve ever run.
This story needs to be on a bigger platform. On a very basic level, it’s a matter of child safeguarding. From a broader perspective, there are possible issues of corruption in the North Yorkshire police. Now, if you are an enterprising cub reporter, why not ring up Queen Ethelburga’s and ask: is Brian Martin still resident on campus? Is he still the proprietor of the school? What measures are the school putting in place to stop him accessing campus, when said campus is his private home?
Mark Blacklock, who spent five years doggedly reporting this piece, is very happy to speak to any hacks willing to cover this story. You can reach out to him on Twitter, or we’ll be happy to furnish you with his email, if you so desire.
Treat Yourself
As nodded to in the introduction, we are now really starting to see Issue 15 take shape: the texts have been preened, the illustrators are briefed, and we’re already seeing sketches of Nigella Lawson, Tommy Wiseau and David Koresh seep onto our pretty pages (now how’s that for a teaser?). Coming so soon after the launch of our biggest ever investigation, our streak of newsletter scoopettes, and our best year ever in 2022, dear reader we are feeling good right now.
So that’s why we want to share that good feeling with you, and what feels better than seven Fences for the price of four? Nothing. Not a single thing. Subscribe today, and you can have Issue 12 in your inbox this evening, Issue 13 and 14 on your doorstep by the end of the week, Issue 15 this time next month, Issue 16 for your summer holiday, Issue 17 as the leaves turn brown, and Issue 18 as an early Christmas gift to yourself. All that – 400 odd pages of solid gold – for just 30 quid. Go on, you won’t regret it.
Rationalism in Politics and Other Essays
Isabel Oakeshott, who is distantly related to the eminent philosopher, is back in the headlines, which is where she likes to be. Since leaking all of Matt Hancock’s WhatsApps to a newspaper, she’s been at the forefront of the story herself, which is strange if one stops to consider the import of said leaked messages.
In 2015, Oakeshott also dominated the headlines when, in conjunction with the billionaire Brexiteer, Michael Ashcroft, she published an unauthorised biography of David Cameron, Call Me Dave, which alleged that the-then Prime Minister inserted his penis and/or testicles into a dead pig’s mouth as part of an initiation ceremony for the Piers Gaveston Society at Oxford University.
If you’ve attended a ‘Piers Gav’ event, you would know the story is absolute rubbish; and it’s very hard to imagine a smooth, ambitious operator like David Cameron throwing himself into a moment of such destructive hedonism. Of course, there was no corroborating evidence, and Oakeshott herself said ‘that there is no need for burden of proof on a colourful anecdote.’
So why was this story published? Well, as Solomon Hughes suggests in this brilliant piece, it was an act of revenge by Ashcroft, who had not received the senior role in government he felt he deserved, and so wrote a book loaded with smear and innuendo.
But how did Oakeshott and Ashcroft cook up ‘Piggate’? Well, we’ve got a theory, and we reckon it to be true. After ringing round Cameron’s Oxford contemporaries, and only getting some skin from James Delingpole (which confirmed something Cameron had already admitted to); they were at a loss. So they looked at the last ‘high society’ Oxford scandal – the Olivia Channon affair, where, it was reported, Gottfried Von Bismarck would place pigs’ heads at either ends of the table.
If you’ve spent time in Oxford, you’ll know there are a few butchers in the Covered Market, one of which, M Feller and Daughter, has just announced that they are shutting shop. But for many years, they would hang whole carcasses and pigs’ heads in the window – taunting local vegetarians, and we reckon, inspiring visiting journalists to create flights of fancy.
One for Isabel’s colleagues to ponder.
Shock Jocks
Even as Elon Musk does his best to denude and destroy the platform, we’re still spending a bit too much time making sweet sweet content for Twitter.
The Scandalous Art Nexus grids up the most controversial artworks of all time (how did we miss out A Clockwork Orange?), even as Twitter burns to the ground, we’re going to keep putting out cute little bits there. You should follow us here.
Making Do and Getting By
Jack Beaumont’s reportage into Restart makes for disquieting, fascinating reading. If you don’t know, Restart is the government’s flagship programme to rehaul the benefits system. If you’re a taxpayer – or if you’re trying to become one – then you should give it a read at this link here. It’s a surprisingly breezy piece.
The Pride of Tyneside
Last week we shared a wonderful clip of Paul Robeson singing Joe Hill to Scottish coal miners, and asked: which modern singer could command the same power for today’s downtrodden workers? Ed Campbell replies that Sam Fender would be the man for the job. And he’s exactly right.
Obentos on the House
There’s a vogue for (re)discovering classic London restaurants among hip Londoners that has been well-documented in the various Sunday supplements – we’re sure you’ve seen some Instagram photos of your friends/your children smiling beatifically next to Oslo Court’s famous dessert trolley. While this is a fashion that we not only endorse, but also partake in, it does often mean that new, exciting restaurants that ‘push the envelope’ don’t get the coverage that they deserve.
Oxeye opened last year near the new American Embassy in Nine Elms, so is perhaps not a part of London you frequent (unless you work for the CIA). But you should go, because Sven Hanson-Britt’s 15-cover restaurant is doing some of the most technically skilled cooking in the capital, and they’re offering a truly ridiculous lunch deal – £35 for three courses of precise cooking served over three or so hours. It’s a level of affordable decadence that is very appropriate in current circumstances, and feels like a glimpse into the future (The Fence did pay for their meal, we should add).
In Case You Missed It
Lamorna Ash tells us everything her brother taught her about life.
Zain Khalid trains his unblinking eye on Salman Rushdie’s writing, after the fatwa.
Director Ed Zwick offers a great big gossipy slice of namedropping delight, with his tale of the conception of Shakespeare In Love for AirMail.
Francisco Garcia surveys the ongoing success of The Digger, Glasgow’s uber-local, muckraking crime sheet.
Bellingcat’s Aric Toler explores PMC Ryodan, the anime teens waging subcultural war in Russia.
For the Wellcome Collection, Elena Carter looks at the fragments of life left by the artist Audrey Amiss in her final days.
And Finally
‘A long time ago, some hairy character painted blue, slung down the carcass of a recently slain stag, grunted “this is the spot” and told his wife to build a house’.
So begins Clive James’ Postcard From London, which you can now watch in full on the iPlayer. Filled with gossipy anecdotes and famous faces, we hear from Victoria Wood about the bed she and James shared, from Peter Cook on his sole interaction with the Krays, and witness Clive in suited agony at a Kill City Dragons show at the Hippodrome on Charing Cross Road. (One wonders how he would fare with its current nightly showing of Magic Mike Live).
First and foremost, it’s a showcase of James at his gruff best, a raconteur who appeared to toss off wit and pith without trying, like it was ballast from some greater store of genius that never became diminished in the process. The show’s core conceit is to contrast modern London (of July 1991) with that of his own 1960s heyday. Of note to all of us at Fence HQ is a particularly stirring segment in which Peter Cook escorts Clive through Soho to discuss that swinging decade, taking a neat path past our offices as he does so.
Watching 30-year-old footage of the place you live will create a surplus of wist at the best of times, but here the effect is doubled. A 30-year-old documentary about London, lamenting the London of 30 years earlier, both enhances its words and renders them absurd. Satire, we are told, is toothless, and the rents are going up. Londoners grow dreary and the young dress to please themselves. It’s quite good evidence that the past is indeed a foreign country, but almost always the same one; eternally populated by people who feel it’s just not like it used to be. T’was ever thus.
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That’s it for this week, and we’ll join you again soon. If, after reading this newsletter, you’re thinking ‘Hey, this is pretty great, I can’t believe this is free to read’, then do the right thing and subscribe at the link just below.
As ever, if you’d like to talk to a member of the editorial team on any subject great or small (or you have some postal enquiries) then reply to this email and we’ll come back to you promptly. We hope you have a great week – stay warm.
All the best,
TF
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