I am having a tough day today. A very painful goodbye at Oxford station, a long walk along the river, and now I am sat in my half-empty flat feeling hollow and a little lost.

My possessions are strewn about. They need to be divided into take-with, put in shipping container, and chucked away. I have nowhere to sit. My chairs are covered in boxes; the sofa’s is in pieces in a recycling skip; the bed I sold last night for £75 to a nice student who loaded it into a large people taxi and drove off. My Mazda was driven off the day before.

I keep feeling hungry but it’s only 11.50am and I know it’s not hunger but stomach knots as the depth of my move, my emigration sinks in. And I keep welling up. Occasionally one manages to break through and pulls with it a few drops down my face. They don’t have enough momentum to get past the cheek ridge so stop there and dry.

I’m hoping that by writing this post I am going to get some clarity, clear my head. I’d been staring vacantly out the window for 10 minutes trying to get a handle on things and failing. The answer my brain eventually came up with was: write. I am starting to feel better already.

Fight!

I haven’t had to fight my way out of a pub for over a decade. Actually, to be fair, it wasn’t a fight. I didn’t hit anyone. It was more defensive – protecting Rachel from two screeching harridans, forcefully pushing my way past a few locals. Although I do have a few cuts and bruises on my hands and arms.

I think it was only me that noticed how sour the atmosphere had turned. It was bizarre. Andy and his mates had decided to watch the rugby world cup semi-final, England vs France, at the Duke of York – the strange pub soon to be destroyed in a renovation of Oxford’s “West End”. It is the nearest pub to me – literally two minutes walk – but it is a very local pub and since it resides literally on the edge off Oxford’s biggest car park, next to the main road, it attracts the sort of people that feel more comfortable in pubs that are in the middle of car parks.

Anyway when we arrived – me, Iain and Rachel – Andy, his girlfriend Sue, and four of his mates were already there. Far from having the big screen that the pub puts up for footy, they were actually in the back of the pub watching a small TV plugged resting at the end of the bar. We suggested moving to a different pub but the consensus was that all the pubs showing the rugby would be rammed, and at least we had seats here (we did, three tables and about 15 chairs).

So this is about 7.30pm, with the game starting at 8pm. By the time of kick-off a bunch of other people both groups had invited turned up and a couple of locals had also set up in the back to watch the TV.

Sing-song ding-dong

Now, the problem is that Saturday night at the Duke of York is karaoke night. It’s a riotous affair. I’ve been twice and it is the one night that the pub gets full. It’s fascinatingly dreadful: young, tarty girls; old men staring at the girls; and a big contingent of overweight late-30s women hating both groups, drinking vast quantities of wine, and wailing their favourite songs into the enormous PA system.

To be fair there are two women that have pretty good voices (the sort that go on the X-Factor and are quite good but are amazed, and then furious, when they’re told they’re not good enough to go through to the next round). As far I can see, the two women alternate the MC role, which itself comprises singing the odd song in between the locals’ efforts and geeing up the crowd with little comments or jokes. This role has become very important to both these women. They are so much better than other performers that they are constantly applauded on Saturday night and clearly this provides a massive boost to their self-esteem.

They are however massive boozers – as their figures make immediately clear. The last time I went, the MC got increasingly drunk during the course of the evening. She must have put away at least two bottles. And she grew increasingly aggressive. Trying to get the crowd going by slurring passionate exhortations before launching into increasingly incoherent numbers, whose subject matter became more and more about women and a sense of loss or strength. It was great watching but not something you want to do every often.

Come on girls!

Karaoke evening has been losing some of its appeal in the local area recently, however. Work has started on the redevelopment and so the pub is now within a building site within a car park. It has also become an odd haven for the two MCs and their female friends, who have also become best buddies with the barmaids.

It was this group of women that gradually gathered at the other end of the bar that was staring at the 20 or so of us watching the rugby. From the way that the barmaid served me beer – grudgingly and only after pretending not to notice me – I realised noticed that tension was building.

The PA system was turned up. So the TV was turned up. Very soon both were at maximum. There were only about five people in the main part of the pub where the karaoke was set up, and so the start was delayed while England played their socks off in a terrific match against the French.

At half-time, there was a lot of movement in and out of the back and perhaps the karaoke women assumed it was over. But when the second half began, everyone milled back away from the karaoke, and even more people crammed in to see the little TV, the MC could take it no more. She fired up the PA system and started trying to get people going with a song. No one emerged. And at one point she was drowned out by a massive cheer when England took the lead.

So she appeared at the edge of where the rugby crowd was and tried to mock and disturb us by bellowing into the microphone. But while the sound was loud enough to drown out most of the TV’s sound, we didn’t care because we could easily follow what was going on, the game was very exciting, and we didn’t have time to shift to a different pub anyway.

Died blonde bomb-shell

Her mockery had no impact, and no one was signing up to sing karaoke. So after another number she tried a different tack: asking us to keep her informed about the score. Still no one paid her any attention; so she became increasingly angry. When England went further ahead, she rushed in – possibly in the middle of a song – and mockingly kissed the screen. We all ignored her. It was at this point that the wine-guzzling female masses started really getting into a frenzy.

But, of course, we were all so enraptured by the game that no one except me – who had a seat where I could see both the TV and the harridans at the same time – noticed. So when the final whistle went to huge cheering because England had won, the barmaid – who was hovering – immediately, as in within two seconds, turned the television set off. So someone immediately went to turn it on, but she went behind the bar and turned it off at the plug.

This annoyed Andy and his mates so they decided that rather than stay in the pub they would go elsewhere. The group I was in was pretty undecided – they were not big rugby fans, so the offence wasn’t so great. The feeling was that we might as well stay, save having to move.

But as Andy was leaving, he made a fatal error. Somewhat bemused by the barmaid’s behaviour, he said to her, perfectly politely, “you know, we would have stayed here for the rest of evening”. It was all that was needed for the frustration to blow and Andy was met by an enormous torrent of abuse. At which point Rachel intervened in defense of Andy and received another mouthful of abuse. She responded with her own abuse back – saying that the pub should be grateful of any custom they get being stuck in a car park. Which really hit a nerve, and within seconds the MC had appeared from nowhere and hurtled into attack Rachel. The barmaid made to come round the bar; the barmaid’s husband piled in; and Andy and I both immediately grabbed Rachel and tried to bundle her out the pub.

Bang!

It gets blurry from that point. I stopped the MC from getting at Rachel and had my hand clawed as a result, then the barmaid’s husband decided to force me out of the pub by grabbing my neck from behind. Rachel got out the pub with Andy; I managed – with remarkable fortune – to scoop up my glasses that had been knocked off and was planning to block any of the harridans behind me. But the MC had headed back into the pub and come out of the side door, whereupon she charged Rachel across the car park. Fortunately she was fended off by Andy and then held back by some locals. We all marched off to shouts of abuse and just hoped that everyone else had got out around and it hadn’t escalated inside the pub.

When it turned out everyone was fine, I thought the whole thing was hilarious. A perfect end to the last Saturday night I will have in Oxford for probably a very long time – getting in a fight in my local pub with my mates after an England victory. Everyone else seemed a little shell-shocked: not quite sure what happened and why.

A part of me is itching to head over there for Sunday lunch.

Life

I feel better for having relayed that story. My mood has lifted through writing. I still have an entire flat of stuff; a night on an inflatable mattress to look forward to; a terrible brain-whirling movement of myself and my life to a new continent a very, very long way from my friends and family. The sudden complete alteration of a relationship with deep, emotional ties. And I’m still left with the kind of questions that a situation like this throws up in your brain: where I am headed with my life; where have I come from; am I making the right decisions here. And then of course the melancholy.

But writing has, as ever, made them seem less overwhelming. I’m going to have lunch with Andy in half-an-hour in town, and when I get back I will have to spend the rest of the day sorting out my stuff. I hope the feeling of excitement and new possibilities that comes with big moves arrives soon.

Last night, as I was scrabbling around by the front door in the dark with a torch and a piece of fuse wire, my letterbox started juttering away behind me. Even the postmen manage to deliver before 9pm, so I was intrigued. And sure enough it was the latest newsletter (number 6 this year) from the St Ebbe’s New Development Residents’ Association (SENDRA).

A two-page A4 printout covering what is happening locally for the 100 or so other people in my peaceful little corner of the world, hidden from central Oxford thanks to a hideous car park on the way over, but resting neatly and comfortably on the river.

Thanks to the electricity shutdown causing my modem to commit hari-kiri, and me having to do an early morning rush to PC World and rebuild my entire home network, I have only just now got around to reading SENDRA’s September 2006 newsletter.

I get the feeling that the St Ebbe’s resident’s association is rapidly running out of control.

Inasfar as a newsletter for 100 people can run out of control. There is a new sherriff in town, one that is no stranger to residents’ associations, and you suspect there is an agenda at work here, complete with some rigid thinking.

The halycon days

The warning signs were there. When I first moved into my house, the association started up soon after and was just £1 to join. I was happy to pay, and in return got a quarterly digest of what was happening in the area. When the path by the river collapsed and the council steadfastly failed to do anything about it, SENDRA was onto our councillor (also the Mayor), the problem was soon raised, and eventually an agreement to pay for it to be fixed this summer was agreed.

Those, in retrospect, were the glory days. There was one event – a picnic – and everyone was left pretty much alone to get on with their lives.

Somewhere along the line though, there was a coup. Who knows which pleasant, carefree retired lady still bears the scars, but the cost of the new regime became immediately apparent when the demand for the next year suddenly increased to £4. I left the letter on the table for a fortnight, and the next thing I knew there was a knock at the door. It was the enforcer. I should have realised then that the line of not actually bothering me had been crossed. I coughed up because it was only £4.

But this increased budget was suddenly spent on an intelligence operation and law enforcement. Suddenly I, and everyone else, was expected to provide details of my car registration because there had been reports of strangers parking their cars and then heading into town. I didn’t believe it, but you know, best not to question authority in these matters – there was a threat and we needed new legislation to combat it – provide our boys with the tools they needed.

Except for the fact I couldn’t really be bothered to write down my car registration on a piece of paper and then post it through someone’s door when it was my parking spot, my car, and it had been there for two years. That’s when the law turned up. Honestly.

Law enforcement

St Ebbe’s very own El Duce reported the car to the police and a young copper knocked on my door asking if my car was mine. He told me it had been reported as possibly abandoned. I told him who I was, he rang it through and seemed somewhat bemused by the whole thing.

The quarterly newsletters were now monthly, and each one came with an event that you were urged to join – a trip to this museum, a trip to this college. A litter-collecting day. I think there was even a dinner. I have studiously ignored all of this, because my measure of neighbourhood is whether people say hello to you when you stroll past them on the way to the shops.

The enforcement stage is now clearly over. People know who the boss is (except I don’t – the true authority of El Duce is cleverly concealed by other committees over whom El Duce has control). And now the boss has started talking for us all, without the tedious trouble of asking anyone.

Last month’s newsletter informed us that we were all annoyed about the noise that came from the annual Gay Pride event on the large patch of grass directly opposite the river, and about the parking, and that we had complained about it. You rather suspect it wasn’t so much the noise as the people making the noise there were being complained about. The fair appears to have been tolerated.

This month’s newsletter barely contains its fury over the fact that there has been no reply to the stern letter sent to, well, whoever it was sent to. The Secretary is going to ask the Town Hall to discuss the matter, apparently.

Security and stability

There is also the issue of security. There have been two break-ins “recently”, so we are told to keep all our doors and windows locked and to inform the Committee if anything suspicious is noticed. Apparently the first stop for these issues is now the Committee rather than the police – and if you’re in any doubt as to why, the newsletter points out that “the neighbourhood policing plan seems to be on hold and we are trying to contact PC Paul Phillips for the latest news”. You just can’t trust these police, you see? Have to do it yourself.

Third on the agenda is another sub-committee – this one is apparently the Planning Group. There are five members, one of course chosen by the Committee and the others revolving. If you want to become a member, you just have to apply to the Committee and they will help decide if you are suitable.

What is most peculiar about all this though is that the two matters that most concern everyone except the Committee are the river path – which has still not been fixed and which the council is trying to back away from paying for – and the sudden appearance of a small wooden fence at the bottom of the hill leading to the bridge. The sole reason for the fence’s existence is to prevent people from taking a shortcut up the little hill. Why does that matter? No one has any idea, but clearly it is something that is bothering someone who has the ear of the council.

The newsletter finishes off with an outline of future meetings – although it is unclear what exactly what is going to be discussed.

Analogy?

So what has any of this to do with the Internet? Because it is, in effect, the story of oversight of the Internet. I’ve counted eight clear parallels.

Of course, SENDRA can serve a useful purpose – at least it will when it represents the interests of the residents – because there is a much bigger issue coming up. And that is the fact that the council is planning to renovate the entire area, including tearing up the road, adding a whole load of new houses and introducing more shops.

They call it the West End Renovation and where I live people are both excited and wary about it. This part of Oxford is in dire need of transformation, but the plans and designs for that transformation need to be carefully worked on.

And that’s also exactly where we are with the Net at the moment.

It’s an extraordinary thing, this Pro-Test movement that started only a few months and yet has had an enormous nationwide impact on a very difficult subject – the use of animal testing.

On Saturday, the group – fronted as usual by 16-year-old Laurie Pycroft – had their second march through [tag]Oxford[/tag] and even though there were fewer people than the first march, despite it being a beautiful day, there was a real sense of something historic happening.

There was a similar feel at the first march on 26 February, but the sense that time was that this was the first time people had publicly stood up for animal testing. On 3 June, that change had come – wide media attention, GlaxoSmithKline publicly stating its support for animal testing, the prime minister himself signing a petition – and there was instead a collective sense of excitement that the movement had achieved so much in such a short period of time.

At the first march, there was real fear because of the violent tactics and intimidation meted out by animal rights extremists that was held off by collective strength in numbers. Yesterday, people were wandering around Oxford for hours afterwards with Pro-Test T-shirts on. Even Professor John Stein, who is normally extremely anxious having been personally threatened by animal rights extremists, was relaxed and smiling.

There were new speakers – scientists and MPs and an Oxford University representative – and government statements, and a new PA system on a pick-up truck where before there was a small trolley and a megaphone. There were words of condemnation for the animal rights protestors – who at that moment were standing outside the living quarters of the builders working on the animal lab at the centre of the controversy 30 miles away in Moreton-in-Marsh – but at the same time one of the biggest cheers of the day went to Evan Harris when he said it was no longer about the animal rights protestors, the issue had become bigger than that.

The fact that Colin Blakemore – the activists number one target and a man that, The Observer tells us, has “endured assaults by masked terrorists, bombs sent to his children, letters laced with razor blades, a suicide bid by his wife, and more than a decade of attacks and abuse by animal rights campaigners” – felt confident enough to stand on a truck with the animal housing lab behind him and give a speech is a great thing, whether you agree with what he does in his work or not.

Not for the first time – in fact for the fourth time – the Pro-Test speeches contained a good deal of serious thought, as opposed to the hate-filled ranting that Speak’s frontman Mel Broughton has settled into.

The march started around the corner from the usual Broad Street venue, which confused a few people trying to find it. Here’s a rundown of the speakers with pics and MP3s of their speeches. Please note that I was standing next to the truck which had its engine running to juice up the PA system, so that is why the quality isn’t crystal clear. I have cleaned the sound up to dampen down the engine noise, which occasionally lends a kind-of underwater tone to the speakers.

First up was Laurie Pycroft who gave his usual “I can’t believe what this has become” short speech. You have to hand it to this 16-year-old, really. He could so easily have gone off on a teenager angsty rant, and the Pro-Test movement would have died before it even began, but he has taken a very mature public tone and it has enabled everyone else from MPs, ministers, journalists and university representative to get behind the organisation.

Listen:

Then shadow trade secretary Alan Duncan stood up and gave a good address about how the march was about democracy and threw down some withering words at the animal rights protestors. Mr Duncan is the epitome of a MP but he slightly misjudged the public feeling because the crowd wasn’t there on an anti-Speak march.

Listen to his speech here.

Next up, local MP Evan Harris, who has been a public supporter of Pro-Test since almost its inception and is desperately trying to push the debate of animal testing into wider public debate. He has been closely following the whole movement so had a keener grasp of what the march was about, and went on about the bigger picture and pushed again his idea of having pill bottles show that they have been testing on animals in order to stick the realities of life out there. People are still unsure about that, but then he’s a campaigning MP, which is nice to see.

Listen to his speech here.

Then the MC Tom Holder read out messages sent by former home secretary Charles Clarke, and government health minister Andrew Burnham, lending their support to the march.

Listen to Clarke’s statement.
Listen to Burnham’s statement.

Then Professor Ken Fleming – who was at the Pro-Test Town Hall meeting a few weeks ago but came this time as an official representative of the university. He struck a fine line as well in thanking the people therefore – many of them Oxford students – for supporting the university, when alot of the people don’t so much support the university as the right for the university to build the lab without intimidation.

I think what people do need to recognise with the Pro-Test march is that no one really likes the fact that the lab is being built, or that animal experimentation will go on there, but what they did stand for is the fact that animal testing has taken on a negative connotation of such epic proportions thank to animal rights protestors that they are seeking to balance it up. Animal testing is an unpleasant reality and it goes on because there are good reasons for it to go on. But the support stems from the fact that others are misrepresenting the facts and threatening people.

You can hear Mr Fleming’s speech here.

Then Holder read an extract from an article written by Lord Robert Winston the week before in The Guardian. Winston couldn’t be there in person as it was the Sabbath, Holder said, which not a soul believed. There simply weren’t enough TV cameras for Winston to grant his presence.

Then Niki Shisler – who has also been supporting Pro-Test since almost day one – gave her usual speech about how the issue of animal testing concerns everyone. Listen to it
here.

And finally one of the Pro-Test committee and medical writer, Alison Eden, gave an interesting speech about how it was our duty to stand up for scientists. Sadly, since the MC slipped up and said Shisler was the last speaker, I was already away from the speakers with the mic turned off when she started speaking so I have no recording of it.

Then the march set off. Down Parks Road, Catte St, into Radcliffe Square, and then down the left-hand side of the High St, back along Longwall Street, Holywell Street, then Parks Road, South Parks road and then stop close to then unfinished lab for another set of speeches.

What was immediately noticeable was the far lower police presence than usual. There were also far fewer senior police officials. Presumably they were either have a weekend off or were at Moreton-in-March keeping an eye on [tag]Speak[/tag].

I also wore a wry smile when Tom Holder got carried away again when it came to the media. A line of Pro-Test marshalls walked in front of the procession – for what reason I’m not entirely sure – with linked hands. This annoyed the photographers (myself included) because it meant you couldn’t get any good shots of the MPs, Laurie and the banner at the head of the march. So the photographers simply reached over the line, but this caused some shoving, at which point the old hands threatened just to walk away.

Cue Alan Duncan – ever the politician and very keen on getting a photo in the papers for giving up his Saturday – immediately stopping and lining up for a photo in Radcliffe Square. But the photographers had wandered off. Then some brief panicking by all concerned before the photographers were “let in”. It was all a bit daft especially since the real photo opp was with the Radcliffe Camera in the background at the exit to the square. The celebs paused, everyone snapped off a dozen shots a-piece and it was all done.

I find people’s odd relationship with the media hilarious. Real love-hate. And everyone faces the same dilemma: they try to control the media, but at the same time are desperate for their attention. Of course, as a journalist, you are at the end of this all the time and grow comfortable with it, which is precisely where the abject disregard for rules and the peculiar confidence that worries people comes from.

Anyway, at the lab site, the speeches started up again with Colin Blakemore, who is the animal rights activists number one target and a man who has had to put up with the most appalling intimidation. He looked weary but his message was defiant, claiming Pro-Test had caused “the most remarkable change in public opinion ever in this country”.

Listen to the speech here.

Then Professor Peter McNaughton, from Cambridge University, who also gave a good speech about the realities of animal testing and marvelled at the number of young people there and how they were the future.

Listen to his speech.

And then Iain Simpson – one of Pro-Test’s main organisers – whose rhetoric is good but his delivery is a bit Arthur Scargill. He’s a nice bloke but he needs to calm down if he gives speeches.

Have a listen.

And then a roll-call of people to thank which was actually when the feeling of history in the making became almost palpable. The large number of people that had come together and defied the difficulty of the subject, and the very high risk of threats and intimidation from the animal rights protestors. A real sense of people having stood up for their rights and it having worked beyond anyone’s wildest dreams.

I still have significant reservations about animal testing – and I suspect that the reason that Oxford University won’t allow the cameras into its animal testing labs is because the images simply will be shocking to the wider public – but I was very glad to have been there standing in the June sun as a small group of intelligent and dedicated people showed just what was possible with some hard work and courage.

So it’s 6pm, pitch black, on a cold February night and I’m sat on a wall at the back of St Anthony’s College in Oxford waiting for the prime minister to appear having given a speech on Britain’s future role in Europe.

I’m not supposed to be here, I’m not even supposed to know this event is taking place – despite the fact that the meeting – and what Tony Blair is going to say at it – has been plastered all over the newspapers and on the radio this morning.

Downing Street had told me I wasn’t allowed to know the time or venue. And I wasn’t allowed to attend. Oxford University had told me Downing Street has told it to refer all requests back to Number 10. I had found out anyway and called the college but was told there were no spaces.

To make matters worse, the prime minister had eluded my efforts to photograph him as he arrived by taking a back entrance that I believe I am now sat on the wall facing.

All I really wanted was proof that Tony Blair was actually in the building. Since what he was going to say in his speech had already been given to lobby journalists, who had already written it up, and since lobby journalists were the only representatives of the public allowed into the college, it seemed all too plausible that Tony Blair needn’t turn up at all.

And, ironically, the full force of the state appears to have concentrated on making it impossible to judge whether he actually was in the building not 20 feet away from me.

What is strange is that the only two entrances that he could have entered without me seeing – and photographing him – are not only quite small but two huge media vans are parked right next to it. It seems strange with such an over-the-top security operation that the prime minister’s security detail would allow cars to be parked so close – effectively hemming in anyone that came out of the exit.

Nevertheless, I test my camera and flash for the likely distance I will take the photograph. Which brings the immediate attention of two bobbies sat, with six others, trying to keep warm in a police van 10 foot away from me.

To my surprise, they are both very friendly and simply want to know what I’m doing. I say I’m a freelance journalist and I was hoping to get some snaps of Tony Blair leaving. “Okay, fine, so long as we know who you are,” they chirpily say and walked back to the warmth of their van.

I was expecting grief from the police and already had a series of reasons as to why I was doing nothing wrong, was not breaking the law, and what I would do if I was hassled or threatened unnecessarily. No need.

In fact, I had already started to ponder why this level of security and secrecy had been felt necessary. Has there ever been any evidence, or in fact anything, to point to Tony Blair personally being targeted? The IRA threat is over. Al-Queda’s entire modus operanda is striking symbols and causing maximum levels of death and carnage. It simply isn’t equipped to carry out assassinations and if the violent Islamic fundamentalist organisations are anything, it is pragmatic.

Nevertheless, there is something reassuring in the police coming over to talk to me and then, without any hassle, heading back when it is clear I am not a threat.

My flash gun has also attracted another visitor – an old woman from a nearby house who told me she was outside putting out food for the animals when she saw the police van and the flash and decided to wander over. She offered to make me a cup of tea for the cold and asked who was inside.

“Tony Blair,” I said, “giving a speech on Britain’s role in Europe.”

“Oooh, I don’t like him,” she said straight away. “That business in Iraq. And you know what him and Bush are saying now? That they were mis-advised at the time. Rubbish. He should never have sent our troops out there.”

While chatting away to this woman, two female college students appear, walking home. “Who’s in there?” asks one. “Tony Blair.” “Oh really? I don’t like him.” “No, I don’t like him, either,” says the other. “It was the war in Iraq,” says the old woman to grunts of agreement by the other two.

Then one of them comes up with a plan. “We should get some eggs – chuck them at him when he comes out. Is he coming out here?,” she asks, “I hope so,” I reply. “I’d love to hit him with an egg,” she muses.

It’s so cold that everyone soon departs and I decide to check out what is happening around the other side – the best entry point to the college. The fact that three policemen are on each exit attracts occasional attention with the odd passer-by asking the coppers who’s inside. They don’t tell them so inevitably a good number head over my way to ask me – the bloke with a huge camera hanging round his neck.

I had the exact same conversation every time. “So who is it in there?” “Tony Blair.” “Tony Blair, huh. What’s he doing?” “Giving a speech on Europe.” “Aw right. I don’t like him you know. Do you like him? He should never have gone to war in Iraq…”

Everyone, complete strangers, seemed willing – not even willing, actually keen – to discuss politics and in particular why the Iraq war was shameful. And it wasn’t just students. Men and women from 30 to 60. One bloke strolled over the road to discuss Blair’s legacy and have a laugh at the LibDems’ predicament.

The police refused to get drawn into political conversation and were slightly disappointed that I wasn’t from a national, merely a freelancer. Nonetheless, they were very affable and clearly would much rather be at home with their families than standing in the freezing cold at 7 o’clock at night.

It dragged on. The BBC left, a group of first-year students arrived with their mobile-phone cameras waiting for a chance to snap Tony, wandered off again when it got too cold and came back again 30 minutes later.

The event was over and people started leaving. Cars started leaving the exit where I was standing but they definitely weren’t the prime minister. And then through the gate, a whole series of police motorbikes lined up.

Once they started their engines, I was certain it was the prime ministerial escort and readied the camera as no less than six motorcycles rode past me followed by… nothing at all.

Subsequently, the Italian and Spanish ambassadors came out in their cars (whose number plates are “Italy” and “Spain” in case you’re wondering how to recognise them).  But the police had already started packing up so clearly the PM had already left. If indeed he was ever here.

As I walked around the back to try to figure out what possible route the prime minister had taken – I noticed a car pulling out of a space well beyond the back gates. In the dark I hadn’t recognised a gate leading down to an underground entrance to St Anthony’s – where the prime minister’s car has clearly emerged from 10 minutes earlier to join the motorcade.

So, beaten by the intensive security put around our country’s leader, I retired to the pub to thaw out, go to the toilet (having needed to for an hour) and consider the evening.

And it was then that it struck me: the leader of this country is living entirely within a bubble of his own making.

Tony Blair has no reason to doubt that his life is under constant threat. He was whisked in a car to an underground car park to deliver a speech that had been made public but had had a ring of steel put around it. He addressed a group of the assembled and he was then whisked off again, with a full escort until he was safe back in Downing Street.

But if this man, who so entranced the nation only 10 years ago, had allowed himself to move outside this paranoia, he would have found not crazed terrorists waiting for him outside but rather a motley crue of students excited to see their leader, a lonely old woman, a man with a limp, and a freelance journalist with a camera.

He would have found that the Britain that he has lost track of is still there. Quiet indignation, good humour and a dislike for people that get above their station. That is the world that he should have been standing in, at least for a while. That would have given him something bigger and wider to consider as he winged it back down the M40 to London.

And it is Tony Blair the man that is behind his removal from the real world. It is security’s job to protest the prime minister – and it will do that whatever he decides to do. It is obviously enormously flattering to one’s ego to be sped in and out of meetings. It will certainly aid parallels of importance with respect to the American president. But the fact remains that not only is Britain a small island but its citizens are not allowed to carry handguns.

Tony Blair was in no danger in Oxford. At worst he might have had an egg flug his direction. And that might have been no bad thing for a man who the public has turned against because he has lost his touch. Tony Blair is no longer the man who is on people’s side; he is the man who fears for his own position, who believes himself risen above the mundanities of everyday life.

It is suddenly not so bizarre that the man who served so long as a Labour MP would welcome the ID cards Bill, pointing to how it would aid the security services. Who would happily push for phoney information on Iraq. Who wants new anti-terrorism powers that diminish every citizen of the UK. Who brings and pushes new laws that give unseen faces more and more power and control over everyday people’s lives.

This is all perfectly logical to a man who lives a suffocating life of constant protection, who is kept from unfamiliar faces and situations. The very news that he is appearing somewhere has become classified information for a Downing Street office that has soaked up this paranoia. In the brain of the man we call Tony Blair, the only solution is authority. Authority providing protection. Outside there is only danger and risk.

There is no coming back for this man. The country will choose a new representative who hasn’t become crippled by the years of fear of attack. Who believes in the essential goodness of this nation because he has felt it only days ago while walking down the street.

Is that man Gordon Brown? I suspect not. The current chancellor has become imbued with the same philosophy, drank from the same cup for too long. The man is David Cameron. Whether you like it or not, the country is turning to the man who isn’t scared of his own people.

In 2009, the Tories will be back for the first time in 12 years.

I first heard about it at around 8.30am yesterday morning on the Today programme. “Tony Blair will be giving a speech on Britain's role in Europe in Oxford today where he will say…”

The speech-reported-before-it-is-said must be one of the most depressingly symbols of modern media politics. It goes right to the heart of what news is – and what it should be. Newspapers have always been broadly supportive of the definition that news is “what you don't know”. If you haven't heard it, it is therefore news.

But the printed media and television now spend more of their time breaking this definition that following it. The rise of the Internet and the endless cost-cutting means that rarely does anything appear on TV or in a newspaper that people haven't already heard.

The editor of the Independent recently outlined how newspapers have to change the modern Net era to become “viewspapers” – informed comment and analysis of events – in order to remain relevant.

It is perhaps not surprisingly then that the pre-speech is so beloved of old media – and of government. Not only does old media get exclusive “news” through their priviledged channels but government gets coverage of a speech which it may well not do if it made reporters actually go to an event and sit through it.

In fact, it may be a mere formality that the speech is given at all. And I am certain there have been times when, once the media coverage is achieved, the speech itself has been quietly shelved.

Nonetheless, I still remain resolutely of the view that a speech is not news until it is said by the person in question and the words that it is claimed will come out their mouth are heard in public.

As such I decided to go along to Mr Blair's speech to see if he turned up at all, and to see if what he actually said corresponded to the “what he will say” as reported in numerous newspapers.

[Telegraph: Europe 'offers new hope for Britain'
BBC: Blair 'optimistic' over EU future
Reuters: Blair urges Britons to embrace Europe
Scotsman: Blair hails future of Europe
And plenty more...]

Having trawled through all the stories though, there was no mention of where and when Blair would be giving this speech. In fact, only a few reports mentioned Oxford at all.

So I trawled the Internet – and found nothing. I went through all of Oxford University's news and events sites and found nothing. Which sounds a touch ludicrous as it had been announced all over the national media.

So I went to the Downing Street website. And found no mention of the speech at all. Surely it had to actually be happening? I decided to call the Number 10 press office – but there is no phone number anywhere on the site.

So I dig out my media directory, find the number, and call. After talking to the switchboard and being connected to a press officer, I am amazed when the press woman simply refuses to tell me where or when the speech will be happening.

I'm not allowed to attend because it is for lobby journalists only and the venue is already fuly booked. Even so, I ask, where will it be and when?  She refuses to say because only lobby journalists are allowed to go and the venue is booked up. This is barmy.

So I call Oxford University's head of press. She tells me that there is a speech but that Downing Street has put out an operational note telling the university to send any requests to the Downing Street press office. I need to talk to them, she isn't allowed to tell me anything, she explains.

Democracy – or cabal?

At which point, I started wondering what exactly is going on with this country's democracy. Here we have a widely trailed speech by our leader about Britain's role in Europe and yet the only people that will ever hear it will be a select group. The people's representatives – the press – at this event comprise solely of the same individuals that follow every other niggle of Downing Street.

The potential for corruption in this system is enormous. The journalists that rely for their livelihood on close connections with Downing Street are the only people that are allowed to attend. These same people have already reported what is in the speech. Can we honestly expect an accurate reflection of what goes on and what is said?

These reporters – who are expected to cover every other business of Downing St – will sit and listen to the speech knowing full well how Downing St wants the speech to be relayed to the wider world. To divert from this remit will incur the displeasure of people that the reporter has to then go to every day for other stories. Is one small speech on the EU worth making their lives any harder?

This is a self-contained world.

And if your question is: so what? What is the great risk here? Well, you have to ask: why would Downing Street seek to protect this self-contained system by refusing outright to provide details unless it was in its own interests? The government is actively protecting this system of information control. While this may not matter some of the time, on this occasion it is doing so on an important speech that will given widespread public attention.

The answer, or rather excuse, given to this over-the-top secrecy is security. Tony Blair is undoubtedly a terrorist target thanks to the Iraq war. But the security argument is a convenient fallacy. I am a registered journalist and a UK citizen. I would have been perfectly willing to provide whatever details the authorities asked for in order to demonstrate my identity. But I wasn't asked, and I wasn't going to be asked. No one was welcome.

This isn't the only big question over security though – as the rest of the evening made clear. In fact I have come to the conclusion that this security has the direct effect of undermining our very democracy – but more of that later.

Touring Oxford

Being told you are not even allowed to know where an event is taking place or when, is pure anathema to someone like me. So I set off around Oxford.

Clearly Blair's arrival would be preceded by security. Plus, no doubt, the priviledged journalists in swish cars, and possibly European diplomats. So I noted down the most likely locations for a speech on Europe and embarked on a walk of Oxford. I figure if there was a heightened security presence on a building, or a series of Mercedes, Jaguars etc that I'd be on the right track.

The Oxford Union – the university's debating building – was very unlikely to be the location as news would have leaked by now that the prime minister was coming. But I strolled past it anyway. Nothing.

Equally, nothing on Broad St – where the Bodelian, Sheldonian and various colleges are – plus a vital car route into the centre of town. Nothing on Holywell Street. Longwall Street – which skirts town and connects up lots of colleges, including the Politics and International Affairs department – was more interesting.

There was certainly alot of middle-aged self-important men in flash cars zooming around. But then that is the Oxford University of the 2000s. Universities are now international “brands”and it's all about marketing and money. As such, under the new management at Oxford University, these flash wankers – for want of a more abusive description – have started sticking their nose in everywhere and riling the old Dons.

I checked out South Parks Road – where the university is building its controversial animal housing centre – and St Giles – the main street in and out of north Oxford. And the back of the high street – a cosy, quiet location leading to the back of more colleges. Nothing.

In the end, I realised that the speech must be at least after lunch and decided to head back home. But then I had a brainwave and called the local newspaper the Oxford Times. I was planning to get some shots of Tony Blair arriving today, I told the newsdesk – perfectly true – could it tell me where and when he'll be?

Fortunately Downing Street hadn't got to them and I finally found out the location – St Anthony's College on Woodstock Road at 5pm. St Anthony's has the European Studies centre, so I called up and asked if I could attend. I was told there were no spaces.

I've been to St Anthony's twice for student “bops” so I felt fairly confident that I could get a picture of him arriving, perhaps even yell a question.

As I cycled past The Randolph hotel at 4.20pm, I was immediately certain it was his car parked directly out front, with another car with security in. I thought of getting off and strolling into the hotel with my camera. But I wanted to get pics of him arriving at the venue – as evidence that he actually gave the speech – so I foolishly decided to cycle on to St Anthony's.

The place had a medium police presence. One police van on one side. About four police at the front. Another four on the side and about another six strolling around the neighbouring roads. There was no more than mild interest by passers-by.

Since everyone had been so up-tight about divulging details, I decided it best to stay out of sight. So I pitched myself behind a low wall that covered both the front and side entrances of the college where I could get some good snaps of him walking into the building. I moved to get a view of the road so I could see any cars arriving.

Around ten-to-five there was alot of bustle and men with earpieces strolling about so I prepared my camera – and nothing. Then at five o'clock I could hear the applause of the hall as Tony Blair's clearly entered.

It was freezing cold but annoyed that I've somehow missed him, I decided to go for a stroll around the college. At the very back are two fortified gates with four vans – two police, one BBC, and another which could have been media or police but had a satellite on top and loads of equipment inside.

This was the only place that I couldn't see from my vantage point so the prime minister must have entered here – which was odd as it was a small road and a small gate. So I went to the local pub, had a pint, and headed back to the back gate to sit and wait and this time make sure I get a picture as some kind of proof of this weird world.

More later…