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into parked cars, looking for vans with mirrored windows. There aren't any. At reception they seem
to have lost my booking (the tentacles of Bilderberg reach far!), but eventually I get checked in, go
upstairs, unpack, have a shower, go downstairs, step outside, look across the street and realise I've
scurried into the wrong hotel. This is who Bilderberg are up against.
An embarrassing hour later, I set out again from the right hotel, determined to find the location
where Bilderberg is said to be happening. Get some early photos, maybe see Hillary Clinton arrive.
Although I'll settle for Ken Clarke. It's getting late. Joggers are out. FBI? Secret service? Almost
certainly. I trudge on determinedly. After about half an hour I realise I turned the wrong way out of
my hotel and I am walking up a deserted coastline towards Athens. I go back to bed. Another
untroubled night for Bilderberg.
At breakfast, a heavy-set man with hairy forearms sits opposite me and fiddles with his mobile
phone. Definite spook. He eats a hard-boiled egg and watches me struggling with my Coco Pops.
My first discovery of the day is to find out what happens to Coco Pops when they're left to sit for a
decade in a Greek presentation dish. They turn to gravel.
The spook leaves before me. He got what he came for: a photo of me, sneaked on his mobile and
wired already to Quantico in Virginia. And a hard-boiled egg.
Outside, it's a beautiful day, the air smells of sun and seashells, and there is no sign of a global cabal
meeting anywhere near. I have a wander. From my meagre, third-hand, internet forum sources, I
think I know the hotel where Bilderberg is happening: the Astir Palace resort. Further from my hotel
than it looked on Google maps. Note to self: always check the scale on the zoom.
A dozen promontories and dusty dead-ends later, and I'm ready to give up. It's too hot. I don't have a
sunhat. The world is going to hell and Vouliagmeni is full of litter. What is it with the Greeks and
bins? Do they not see them? Do they not believe they exist? Hidden in plain sight it's the
Bilderberg way. It's too hot. I need some water. Bilderberg's nemesis: journalist Jim Tucker
Bilderberg's nemesis: journalist Jim Tucker. Photograph: Charlie Skelton
And then, on the pavement ahead, there he was. I recognised him from the videos. The braces, the
loose shirt, the grizzle. The tattered leather briefcase, packed with dark secrets. It was the doyen of
Bilderberg hunters himself, Jim Tucker. I addressed him.
"Excuse me ... Mr Tucker?"
"Let's go into my hotel and talk."
Tucker is a man in a hurry. He's not getting any younger, and his old enemy Bilderberg is getting
stronger.
"Hot enough for you?" I venture.
"Too hot for a fatboy," he growls.
The exchange makes me feel like a resistance fighter exchanging codewords. Assured of my
credentials, Tucker gestures me into his hotel lobby. I can't believe my luck. Suddenly I'm not alone,
I'm not hallucinating. Bilderberg is here. Where you find Jim Tucker, you know Bilderberg isn't far
away. He's a herring gull, telling me there are whales beneath.
Tucker lights a non-filter cigarette, lays his hat upon the table, and settles back into the lobby sofa to
talk ...
Charlie Skelton will be filing regular updates from Athens until he is arrested by shadowy figures in
dark glasses
Independently of me, Jim Tucker failed to get in for a snoop. He stubs out a weary cigarette. I don't
sense it's his first. I ask him about the order of business. "This year? They'll be talking about that
ridiculous swiiiiiiine flu." And in the five raked-out syllables he gives the word "swine", he paints
his distaste of the subject. "They want to use it to turn the World Health Organisation into the global
department of health." I have to ask. "Isn't it already?"
"Only for members of the United Nations. Also, they'll be talking about ratifying the international
criminal court. Obama is waiting until he gets a sympathetic senate, after the 2010 elections. Then
he'll pass it one evening, late in the week: too late for the Sunday papers, too late for the talk shows.
It'll happen, and no one will notice. First part of 2011."
I'll say this for Mr Tucker: for a fortune teller, he's giving us details. Nothing about "You will travel
overseas" or "Watch out for a man with a D in his name."
Like David Rockefeller? "He's 93, but if he's alive, he'll be here," growls Jim. But again, why is this
a problem? Why is anyone bothered that a bunch of powerful psychopaths sorry, sociopaths ...
sorry, bankers and politicians have a yearly get-together? Many people admit to attending. As one
of the commenters on my previous piece rightly points out, George Osborne mentioned going to
Bilderberg 2008 in his official expenses (apparently he paid for the flights himself). So why worry?
Why interrupt your John Grisham for a single second as the limousines roll up the hill?
Perhaps the problem is not that people are meeting up. If there's a problem at all, it's whether or not
there is a coherent global agenda, whether this agenda is something towards which people in power
are doing their best to advance things, and whether this agenda (if it exists at all!) is a benign one.
For now, my jury is out. Except to say that when it comes to global politics I'm reminded of that
Edgar Allan Poe short story: the one in which [WARNING: SPOILER] a purloined letter is
concealed out in the open, where everyone can see it. Like large letters written across a map, so
large they can't be seen. I can't for the life of me remember which tale it is, Murders on the Rue
Morgue or The Purloined Letter. One of those two.
I'm going back to the Astir Palace now. The heat of the day is passing, and afternoon sun looks good
on the barrel of a machine gun.
Charlie Skelton will be filing regular updates from Athens until he is arrested by shadowy figures in
dark glasses
It wasn't meant to end this way. I'd gone for a gentle sunset walk, up by the Bilderberg hotel, to
relax before the big opening day of the elite globalist shindig, watch Phoebus plunge headlong into
the western sea, and (yes) maybe sneak a couple of short-lens pictures of the mounting security.
Opposite the hotel gates I took a casual photo out over the bay, limbering up to swivel round and
snap off some naturalistic "armed guard having fag and chatting up policewoman" sort of shots. A
plainclothes officer jogged across the road and got in my face.
"No photos."
"Of the sea?"
"Give me your camera."
"I don't understand."
"Passport."
"I've got my Oyster card".
"Passport."
"Driving licence?"
He takes my licence. A group of policemen have sauntered over, and mutter Greekly about the
enormous threat to the smooth running of Bilderberg I seem to represent.
"What is this?" asks one of the local militia. He takes my notebook. Opens it at random.
"What are you writing? What here?"
He points to an old 8 Out of 10 Cats joke (well, barely) about what would happen if we had a female
Doctor Who. He jabs at it, proof, in black and white, of my status as an agitator. I read it out: "I'm
not saying we've already had a female Doctor Who, but Sylvester McCoy put cracks in the glass
ceiling."
"Who is this? Syl... Syl..."
"Sylvester McCoy."
"A friend of yours? He is staying here?"
I bite back telling them that Sylvester McCoy is a noted anti-globalist freedom fighter who is here to
lead the people's revolt against Bilderberg's liberty-stripping agenda. "It's nothing. Can I have my
book back?"
They confer. An imp in my brain tells my hand to reach for my camera and take a photo. Click.
Whir. At which point, on a gorgeous May evening on the Athens Riviera, began one of the more
stressful hours of my life. Hands went to holsters.
"NO PHOTOS!"
"HE TAKE FOTOGRAFIA!"
"NO FOTOGRAFIA!"
Over came the man with the machine gun. Over came the man with the special mirror-on-a-stick for
car bombs. It was the first time in my life, and hopefully the last, that I've been intimidated by a
mirror on a stick. They circled round me. One of them, the one in the photo with one hand up and
the other on his pistol, kept prodding me in the shoulder, and shouting: "Give the camera! Just give
the camera!"
All around me: "Delete! Delete photos!" followed by a lame tug of war for the camera with no great
self-belief on either side, which I won. Camera back in pocket.
Then it became: "Get in the car!" Get in the car!" I wasn't about to get in the car. I remember saying:
"One of you has a machine gun, you're shouting at me, I don't understand why, I took one
photograph, this all seems a bit strange. What's going on here?"
One of the nicer policemen, who looked a bit like the short guy from LA Law, the one married to
Jill Eikenberry (note to self, update this reference), took me aside. "Very important people coming.
Very important. No photograph. Please get in car, we take details, put in computer, you can go."
I complained, reasonably I think, that they could simply phone my details through to the station, and
check that I wasn't wanted on three continents for acts of terror, but they were having none of it.
Prod, prod, prod. Eventually I got in the car. I had to.
They drove me to the police station. Other cars followed. At the station, officers gathered from all
quarters. They'd sniffed an incident. A dozen of them stood round me. The Greek chorus reached
full voice: "Give the camera! Delete photos! You understand?!" I hated my hands for trembling
when I wrote down my father's name so they could look me up on "computer". But at least I got a
chuckle hearing them try and pronounce Melvyn.
One of the policewomen smiled. "Delete photos and you can go, no trouble." She looked like
Christina Aguilera's slightly butch cousin and I fell on her smile with a thirst. Nearly gave her the
camera. Understood in a flash the whole good cop, bad cop thing. Kept my camera in my pocket.
Smiled back. "I just want you to tell me if I've broken the law, and if so, are you arresting me?" God,
I sound like a clich of a protester. Oh god, I'm a protester. What are my rights here?
"Charge me or release me!" is what I didn't shout. I sat quietly and tried to still my hands in my lap.
I smiled at Christina. I was winning.
Suddenly, a "you can go" from the sergeant at the computer. I went. I had my camera. I had my
photo. I was free. It was the end of Midnight Express. The Breakfast Club fist in the air. Except that
I felt sick and wanted to go to sleep.
I slept. This morning, feeling stronger after a slice of breakfast cake, I think I understand: I was the
trouble kicking off. I was the agitation they'd been warned about. Very important people. No
mistakes. They were wired, pumped up for confrontation, and my photo had been the spark. It's why
they'd blown up in my face. Important people arriving. No fotografia.
And then it struck me: there really ISN'T any fotografia. There's none. Not a single member of the
mainstream press. Not a single newshound camera on a tripod. Nothing. Nothing is happening here.
Nothing to report.
The limousines have started to arrive. Nothing to report.
They've closed off an entire peninsula. There are roadblocks. Machine guns. Nothing to report.
This is Bilderberg's 57th annual meeting. Nothing to report.
Susan Boyle plucks eyebrows! Finally, something to report.
Charlie Skelton will be filing regular updates from Athens even though he has been warned and
may not be so lucky next time
So there we were, me and my shadows. Nick and John. "We're just walking up and down." That was
their cover story, and they didn't bother sticking to it. They simply couldn't resist: "How many days
you spend here?" "Where you from exactly?" "You staying here alone?" I was laughing. It was
too bizarre. "What is your job?"
I told "John" I wrote jokes for television programmes. He almost instantly forgot. It wasn't on the
profile he'd just learned, clearly. "So what papers you write for?"
I noticed them in reception after breakfast. Like I'd noticed the similarly dressed, early-30s, blandlooking fellow the night before. He seemed to be staring at me. I turned round and caught him
whispering to the receptionist and looking at me. I swear to God. I know this makes me sound like a
lunatic, and if it weren't for my chat just now with Starsky and Hutch I might start assuming I've had
a touch of the sun. Last night, the phone rang in my hotel room and someone hung up when I
answered. The call came from inside the hotel. I assumed it was one of the other reporters ringing
the wrong room. Maybe it was.
I'm just remembering now. I had a shorter than usual breakfast this morning. I came out. "Nick" was
alone in the lobby. He was on his mobile. I trotted upstairs to my room. Down the stairs comes
"John", also on his phone. I'm slotting together memories now, as I type. I haven't gone mad. This is
happening.
Was he in my room? They knew I was in breakfast. This is crazy.
Here's what happened next: I headed out of the hotel with my laptop. And I thought to myself: you
know what, if they're REALLY cops, they'll follow me. So I stopped, turned round, and waited. Ten
seconds. I felt an idiot, standing there, waiting for an imaginary policeman to follow me out. Fifteen
seconds. Eureka! Out comes "John" on his mobile phone. He looks confused to see me standing
there and crosses the road. I sit down on a wall. He dawdles by a lamppost. I get up, walk to the
seafront, turn left, walk a bit, cross the road (gives me a chance to look both ways and yes, there's
"John").
I walk into the far entrance of the cafe. I'm in an episode of The Wire. The cafe is long and thin. I
double back on myself and stand, hidden, by the earlier entrance. I'm standing behind a shrub,
clutching a laptop to my chest, my heart beating like a Phil Collins solo (on drums, not piano).
I'm just an ordinary guy. A concerned citizen. For this week at least, a blogger. Barely a reporter. A
terrible photographer. No threat to anyone. I'm nobody. But just up the hill, in a luxury hotel, there's
a meeting of the most powerful somebodies in the world. Bilderberg. I've been hauled off to the
police station twice. Before this week, I've never had so much as a cross word with a policeman IN
MY LIFE. I once drove at night with my lights off and was pulled over and told not to drive like an
idiot. And that's it. I'm not a bad person. I don't even know what I am any more. I think I write jokes
for a living. I think maybe I used to. I'm a man clutching a laptop to his chest, trying to breathe
quietly. Ten seconds. Fifteen. "John" comes round the shrub and steps back, bewildered.
"Hi".
"I'm no threat, you know that, don't you?"
Poor "John". I felt sorry for him. He wasn't very good at this. I'm not the smartest shoe in the
window but it took me all of four minutes to blow his cover.
They didn't want to come for coffee. I asked them to take my photo. They did. I took one of them.
"No fotografia! Show me the camera!" Poor "Nick", he was in a real bind. He couldn't remember if
he was a policeman or not.
They seem nice, mostly, the police who have been harassing me for standing around and taking bad
photos with a cheap digital camera. Yesterday, I got chatting with one of the motorcycle cops before
I was bundled off in the squad car. I told him that I hoped tomorrow there would be protests here
not riots, but protests. He agreed. "It would be nice to hear another voice," he said, sadly. A big man
in leathers, caught up in something far bigger. "But today I have to do my job. This is not a good
situation."
This is not a good situation. It would be nice to hear another voice.
I'm going to pay for my coffee now and head back to the hotel. Just the three of me.
Charlie Skelton will continue to file regular updates from Athens because it seems safer that way
tree). Sorry then to the desk sergeant for bothering her with my predicament: "I'm being followed
around like a criminal, I wonder if you wouldn't mind asking them to stop? I'm not doing anything
wrong, and it's getting well a bit annoying."
I'm going to stop apologising now. I'm going to try and make sense of my experiences. It's not easy;
I don't want to sound feeble-minded, but this has been a lot to take in. I feel a bit like I've driven
down the wrong alley and suddenly don't recognise anything, and people are staring at me and not
simply to admire my hair. I'm jumpy. I think someone has been in my room and moved my laptop. I
know this sounds bonkers, I know it does, but I took a photo of it before I left the room and it wasn't
where I left it.
Listen to me. I sound like a fruitcake. Three days and I've been turned into a suspect, a
troublemaker, unwanted, ill at ease, tired and a bit afraid. And I haven't even walked up the road to
the Bilderberg hotel since the whole "get in the car!" incident. I've been trying to stay out of trouble,
but trouble has followed me down the hill.
So to make sense of it. I'm going to begin here: with the face of the first Bilderberg delgate I saw
in the flesh. I was trying, lamely, to get a snap of some delegates as they swooshed through
Vougliameni in their mirrored limos with their plainclothes motorcycle outriders and police escorts.
And one of them had their window open. I was so excited I forgot to bring the camera to my face
and took a photo of the hubcap. What I saw I won't forget. It was a 40-something man with his head
thrown back, laughing and laughing, the perfect photograph that only my retina will ever see.
And you know what: no wonder he was happy. It must be WAY COOL to be sirened through Greek
streets in the back of bulletproof limo on your way to the COOLEST party in the world. You've
been invited by the coolest of the cool kids to hang out for the weekend. Your cool cousin's bercool older brother and his way cool friends have got a keg of beer and a pool in the yard, and their
parents are away and you think Jessica might be going. THIS IS THE BEST PARTY EVER! Turn
on the sirens! We're coming through! Woohoo!
And your life is already pretty cool. You already own a newspaper or head a thinktank, or you're the
UK secretary of state for business, enterprise and regulatory reform, or you run Fiat, or you're
chairman of the Federal Reserve or Queen of the Netherlands, or president of Shell Oil. You run
stuff. You have big ideas. You're in control, and control is fun.
Bilderberg is all about control. It's about "what shall we do next?" We run lots of stuff already, how
about we run some more? How about we make it easier to run stuff? More efficient. Efficiency is
good. It would be so much easier with a single bank, a single currency, a single market, a single
government. How about a single army? That would be pretty cool. We wouldn't have any wars then.
This prawn cocktail is GOOD. How about a single way of thinking? How about a controlled
internet?
How about not.
I am so unbelievably backteeth sick of power being flexed by the few. I've had it flexed in my face
for three days, and it's up my nose like a wasp. I don't care whether the Bilderberg Group is planning
to save the world or shove it in a blender and drink the juice, I don't think politics should be done
like this. This might be a facile point, but if they were organising a charity snooker league, they
could do it upstairs at Starbucks. If they were trying to cure cancer they could do it with the lights
on. Innocent thoughts can be minuted.
Or maybe they're simply swingers. Maybe that's why the curtains are drawn. Imagine chucking your
key in the tub and pulling out Ken Clarke. Sorry Timothy Geithner, that's the cost of doing business.
I have a confession. (I'm not a swinger, that's not it.) My confession is that being tailed today by
Greek special branch, and doubling back through a cafe and catching them out, and buying them
chilled water on a hot day like in Beverley Hills Cop, when Eddie Murphy has room service sent to
their car all this was pretty exciting. It's was my own little episode of the Equaliser. (The
Greequaliser? No, really no, I'm tired). Being tailed was exciting and funny and absurd and
confusing and terrifying and utterly, utterly wrong. And I know this sounds pathetic but I got a bit
teary in the police station when I was telling the nice desk sergeant lady that I'm not a bad person
and not a threat to anyone, and it would be nice if someone could call off the goons. I don't like to be
made to feel like this. I've been "put" in this position, and I haven't deserved it.
Bilderberg is about positions of control. I get within half a mile of it, and suddenly I'm one of the
controlled. I'm followed, watched, logged, detained, detained again. I'd been put in that position by
the "power" that was up the road.
Likewise, the Bilderberg delegates occupy a position of power over the bobbing ignorance of the
people patting beach balls in the sea, and me with my crappy little camera and my curiosity and my
ill-formed sense of citizenship. I may not be very good at bearing witness here, but I'm doing my
best. I haven't shinned over the fence and shoved a camera in David Rockefeller's face but I don't
want to be shot in the forehead.
A final thought for the day. In the fable, the men may have been blind but they did at least get to
grope the elephant before trying to describe it. Now shove that elephant in the back of a blacked-out
Mercedes S600, whisk it off into a luxury Greek resort, circle it with heavily armed guards and
helicopters, hand it a Martini, and pay the local police to harass, detain and follow anyone showing
even the slightest interest of grabbing a flank. That, my friend, is the beast that is Bilderberg 2009.
Thanks to Charlie Skelton and The Guardian for covering this issue. Copyright remains with the
aforementioned.