Publicity is pure poison to the world’s global power elite. So we should all turn up to its next annual meeting with a few more tubs of the stuff, writes Charlie Skelton
Ten years ago, when Jon Ronson dared to report on Bilderberg, he found himself “chased by mysterious men in dark glasses through Portugal”. He was scared for his safety.
“When I phoned the British embassy and asked them to explain to the powerful secret society that had set their goons on me that I was essentially a humorous journalist out of my depth, I wasn’t being funny. I was being genuinely desperate,” he wrote. I know exactly how he feels.
Only out of sheer desperation did I try to arrest one of the goons following me and then follow my flimsy leads up the Greek police ladder, finally catching one of the goons wet-handed in the lavatory of the department of government security. And only then did I know the extent of Bilderberg’s paranoia: they had set the state police on me.
So who is the paranoid one? Me, hiding in stairwells, watching the pavement behind me in shop windows, staying in the open for safety? Or Bilderberg, with its two F-16s, circling helicopters, machine guns, navy commandos and policy of repeatedly detaining and harassing a handful of journalists? Who’s the nutter? Me or Baron Mandelson? Me or Paul Volker, the head of Obama’s economic advisory board? Me or the president of Coca-Cola?
It makes me want to spit, the absurdity of it: the cost, not just in Greek tax euros, but on my peace of mind, of having (conservatively) a dozen Jack Bauers assigned to tailing me. I hope the operation at least had a cool name: Operation Catastrophic Overreaction, perhaps.
So, yes, Bilderberg’s paranoia is half to blame. But there is another reason why Ronson was hounded round Portugal, why I was chased round Greece, and why on Sunday the Romanian journalist Paul Dorneanu was strip-searched by goons in Vouliagmeni, held for four hours and forced to purge his camera of images (for the crime of trying to film the delegates leaving). And it is this: they can harass and detain us only because so few of us are there.
Just now, I searched for “Bilderberg” on Reuters. I did the same on AP. And this is what I turned up:
Publicity is pure salt to the giant slug of Bilderberg. So I suggest next year we turn up with a few more tubs. If the mainstream press refuses to give proper coverage to this massive annual event, then interested citizens will have to: a people’s media. Find the biggest lens you can and join us for Bilderberg 2010. No idea where it’s going to be, but there’s usually a few days’ notice.
We’ll have a barbecue selling bilderburgers (with extra lies), and we will set up our own press centre near the cordon. Get some lanyards. Email me at bilderberg2010@yahoo.co.uk and we’ll start prepping.
Meanwhile, petition newspapers to send a correspondent. Petition your MP to ask a question in parliament. This happened a few days ago in Holland. Citing an article by Paul Joseph Watson on prisonplanet.com, a Dutch MP asked in parliament about the involvement of the prime minister, the minister for European affairs and Queen Beatrix, asking them to make public any items that were on the agenda, and whether the ratification of the Lisbon treaty was discussed.
I’ve got a couple of questions I would like to ask Peter Mandelson, mainly about the freedom of the press and what he thinks about a Guardian journalist being detained, shoved and intimidated by the Greek state police on his behalf. Mandelson’s office has confirmed his attendance at this year’s meeting: “Yes, Lord Mandelson attended Bilberberg. He found it a valuable conference.”
Oh, good. Maybe he stole a bathrobe. Peter has been a busy baron these last few days: all that beach volleyball and global strategising, then straight back to address the Google Zeitgeist conference on Monday, where he talked about “the need for regulation” of the internet. “There are worries about the impact of the internet on our society,” he said. I bet he is worried; but not half as worried as I am about “the need for regulation”.
But these worries are small potatoes compared with the biggest concern Bilderberg 09 has given me. My experience over the last several days in Greece has granted me a single, diamond-hard opinion. Meaning I now have two: that John McEnroe is the greatest sportsman of all time; and that we must fight, fight, fight, now – right now, this second, with every cubic inch of our souls – to stop identity cards.
I can tell you right now that the argument “If I’ve done nothing wrong, why would I worry about showing who I am?” is hogwash. Worse than that, it’s horse hockey. It’s all about the power to ask, the obligation to show, the justification of one’s existence, the power of the asker over the subservience of the asked. (Did you know that most Greek police don’t wear a number? This is an obligation that goes one way.)
I have learned this from the random searches, detentions, angry security goon proddings and thumped police desks without number that I’ve had to suffer on account of Bilderberg: I have spent the week living in a nightmare possible future and many different terrible pasts. I have had the very tiniest glimpse into a world of spot checks and unchecked security powers. And it has left me shaken. It has left me, literally, bruised.
I can tell you this from personal experience: the onus upon the individual to carry with them some external proof of their identity is transformative of his or her status as a human being. The identity card turns you from a free citizen into a suspect. It is a spanner with which to beat the individual around the head. It is the end of everything. And how much easier to put all that information inside a microchip so you don’t have to carry around that pesky card all the time. How much more efficient!
Listen. I don’t care if you don’t love liberty. For the love of yourself: fight identity cards. Don’t let them happen. STOP IDENTITY CARDS. Stop identity cards. And while you’re about it: stop identity cards. And that’s all I have to say, you will be delighted to know, about Bilderberg 2009. Oh, except for a giant word of thanks to everyone who has written supportive or interested comments on these blogposts (let’s meet up for a proper debrief!) And one little correction: for the record, Kenneth Clarke’s office has said he was “in his constituency” at the weekend, not at the Astir Palace doing sambuca shots with the CEO of Airbus. Just in case he remembers differently when asked again.
Source: www.guardian.co.uk
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