Only in Oxford

By Rob Walters

On Friday 5^th October 2002 we were ejected from Borders bookshop in Oxford under police escort. Awaiting us, as we emerged into Magdalene St at nine o’clock on a warm autumnal evening, were three police cars. Our crime - attempting to attend a talk which had been advertised in the press and in Borders’ own list of forthcoming attractions!

The talk, by an author who was then unknown to me, was due to start at seven. I arrived with my wife Margaret just about on time. I’m not sure why she joined me since I knew nothing about the author or his writing but was very glad that she did since I might otherwise have doubted my own memories of the event. I had spotted the topic on a Borders’ flyer some time ago and had selected this event from an otherwise uninspiring selection and had written it into my diary: Andrew Malcolm, 7 p.m. We had made the journey from Stow-on-the-Wold especially for this event. Afterwards we intended to have dinner then end up at a city centre pub for some live music and beer. It had the makings of a really good night out: culture, food, beer, music. And in the right order.

As we descended by escalator into the lower ground floor I experienced one of those moments when I sincerely wished that I were alone. I could see the place, a small square in the sports section of the bookshop, where talks were usually held as we travelled downwards. However, the usual arrangement of chairs and public announcement gear was not there. I immediately thought that I had got something wrong, wrong night, wrong place, wrong week, or whatever. If I were alone it would not matter, but with Margaret in tow I would have to assume some responsibility for my mistake. However, there were about a dozen people gathered in the sports section so I made my way towards them. As I approached a white haired man dressed in a thin black suit turned towards me. We shook hands and I quickly learned that he was the author whom I had come to hear - Andrew Malcolm. There was a perceptible state of excitement amongst the little crowd. People were saying that the talk had been cancelled, that the speaker was banned. I was a little confused because I barely knew what the meeting was about anyway; all I knew about the author was that he had been described as "Oxford’s most controversial figure". I had no idea what he had written or why he was considered to be controversial, I was there to find out. Within the little crowd people looked at each other and raised their eyes. Others said that this was ridiculous. I told one man that I had come from Stow-on-the-Wold to be at this event. He told me that he had travelled from Headington and wanted Borders to repay his 50p bus fare.

The man at the centre of the group, Andrew Malcolm, said that they, Borders, had wanted to cancel the event on the basis that no one would come, yet, as we could observe there were at least ten of us here. He then decided to contact the management and explain that there were people here, people who wanted to hear him speak, so could they please get the thing started. He went off and we milled around, muttering into our beards or whatever beardless people mutter into.

He quite quickly reappeared with a man in his early thirties, almost bald, casually dressed, round faced, bright eyed and a with a very slight stoop. Malcolm addressed him, basically saying that these people (us) wanted to hear him speak. The young man announced himself as the manager of the store and forcibly pointed out to Malcolm that the event had been cancelled two weeks ago and that he Malcolm had been clearly informed of this by telephone. Malcolm denied this and we, the audience said that we had not been cancelled. I spoke up by saying that we had come all the way from Stow-on-the-Wold for the event - this was rapidly becoming my main contribution to the occasion. He responded by saying that he could not help that, the meeting had been cancelled. He had informed the press and there were notices in the shop to that effect.

Someone then said that the event had been announced in that day’s Oxford Times (which I later saw). He said that he was not in control of the press. Someone else said that the announcement was still on their own (Borders’) website. This was true I printed it out. It was still there the next morning (5/10/02 at about 11a.m.). Here is the copy:

OCTOBER

FRI 4TH - 7:00PM ANDREW MALCOLM
One of Oxford's most controversial figures introduces his books Making Names and The Remedy.

TUE 8TH - 7:00PM ROBIN LAURANCE
gives an illustrated talk about his new book Portrait of Islam, an in-depth photographic exploration of the diversity of the Muslim world.

He said that someone else in the company controlled the website. He answered these questions politely, usually with a half smile. Malcolm kept battering him with more questions, most of which amounted to rephrasings of - why have you cancelled this event? He gave various answers such as:

• He was not required to give reasons for such a cancellation
• Too few people were going to come
• The shop did not have stocks of Malcolm’s books because they were uncommercial.
• The subject matter of the talk was inappropriate.
• That all enquiries about this matter should be referred to head office.

It was then suggested that, since we were here and so was the author, the event should go ahead as planned. No, said the manager, he would not allow such a thing to go ahead, this was private property and it was his store and he would no allow a meeting to take place. I then suggested to someone, who later turned out to be Malcolm’s wife, that we go to the pub. "No we can go there later," she said. I had meant that we go to the pub and hold the meeting there but she had obviously misunderstood and I did not pursue the matter.

Malcolm then said that instead of a meeting we could just have a chat. This was greeted with great enthusiasm by everyone in the audience including myself but excluding the manager. He made it clear that he did not want any form of meeting to take place. It was then that a book browser who had been listening to some of the interchange joined the discussion. He was a dark haired man with spectacles and wore light denim clothing. He had a mature student look about him. He said that he was disgusted by what he had heard and that if this was the way that Border’s treated people who simply wanted to meet to discuss a book he for one no longer wished to shop there. And he left, soon followed by the manager.

We then began, rather timidly, to rearrange the furniture. No one seemed to know quite what to do, it was if we were doing something wrong - after all the manager had told us not to meet or even have a chat. At last we had all gathered around the table. The author sat almost opposite me. Beside him sat a small lady with white hair, she wore a mackintosh and carried a shopping bag. Next to her was a white haired gentleman wearing a cap and heavy rural looking jacket. He was thin and had a deeply lined face. He was carrying a small video camera but had already been told by the manager that he must not use it in the store. Beside me there was a much younger man with longish curly hair and colourful clothing. At one point Malcolm sent him outside to see if there were any people waiting at the doors - people who perhaps had been refused entry by the management. He hesitated, but finally left a little grudgingly. I suspect that he feared that he would not be allowed to return, but he did come back. There was also a smart looking woman at the table. She was in her fifties, had dark hair and a thin, high boned face. Later we heard her talking about an interview that she had conducted some time ago with Mrs Curry in which Edwina had intimated at an affair with a fellow Tory MP. The revelation that this MP was John Major had been made that week. A considerably older man sat throughout most of the preparations for our "chat" with his back to a pillar, a walking stick in his hand. Well dressed and probably in his late sixties or seventies he said virtually nothing and, though we all offered him a space, would not draw his chair up to the table. He was "quite happy where he was". The only other person that I can recall, besides Margaret and myself was Malcolm’s wife, though there were others. She was a red haired fresh-faced lady, with an energetic air and a very expressive face. We heard later that she was a freelance book editor. She was unstinting in her support for her husband, though not above some minor criticism of tactics.

Malcolm himself is not particularly tall and is quite well built. His face is broad and a little ruddy, he has a short crop of white hair. He does not look the philosopher that he turned out to be, but does have the bearing of an academic. He has charm, probably due to a ready smile and a quick tongue.

As we all settled down he took two books and some papers from his bag and everyone around the table encouraged him to speak. He now seemed rather withdrawn. First he asked if anyone was in complete ignorance of his cause and the content of his books. Margaret and I and one other shyly raised our hands. By this time the camaraderie that had arisen in our group stemming from its opposition to the overbearing Borders’ management made our confession of ignorance seem a little out of place. But confess we had to, otherwise we would have felt even more foolish.

Malcolm began to explain his case very quietly. At first he skirted around the crux of it as if he did not know where to start - and this, from my point of view was disappointing, for the manager was on his way back. Malcolm seemed to be almost in tears as be tried to describe his feelings towards Oxford and its University Press and it was then that the manager appeared, with reinforcements.

The two men accompanying him were, we later learned, ‘security’. They were both quite scruffy in appearance - perhaps to blend in with the assumed appearance of shoplifters. The manager addressed Malcolm at first, but also made it clear that we, the audience were embraced by his words. He reminded us that this was his store and that it was private property. Malcolm challenged that on the fragile basis that it was a leasehold building. The manager pointed out that he was not interested in anything that the author had to say. He was clearly still trying to smile, endeavouring to keep up the avuncular guise that he had no doubt been trained in. But the guise was now slipping. He repeated that he wanted us out of his store. That he wanted his table and chairs, that he had other uses for them. I asked whether this request to leave included my wife and myself - after all we still did not know what Malcolm was going to talk about. We were simply regular customers of Borders and frequent attendees at events like these. He looked at me coldly and said "Yes, each and every one of you." At this my wife, an emotional and fiery lady at times, leapt to her feet shouting that this treatment was ridiculous; that she was a customer but that after this treatment she would never enter the store again. She then turned swiftly and marched away. She stopped after a few steps, possibly because I was still there. One of the security guards swooped on her chair and took it well away from the table. A minor victory for them.

The other guard, the younger and more pierced model, then gave a speech, forcefully telling us that we were wasting everyone’s time and that we must give up the table and chairs or we would be forced to. He had clearly flipped. Malcolm and some others leapt on this mention of force, challenging the manager. He then said that if we did not go then the police would be called. The security men then came to each of us demanding that we vacate our chairs. They were menacing but not physically forceful. In the end I grudgingly relinquished mine reasoning that I still did not know what this was all about and that it was their chair and anyway my wife no longer had one. Everyone else did the same - except Malcolm who sat on his chair clutching his briefcase, looking a little nervous but quite determined. He tried to talk to the manager but the man would no longer look at him or listen to him. The manager then left - to call the police!

Malcolm’s chair became a symbol of our strange occupation. During the next hour or so we circulated around the sports section with Malcolm and his chair as our hub. If he needed to get up to stretch than someone else occupied in the chair so that it could not be taken away. And so we waited for the police to come. I had been somewhat arbitrarily dragged into this but was now firmly on Malcolm’s side, though I still did not know what made him the "most controversial character in Oxford". However during the wait I did learn a little more from his wife, himself and some other sympathisers.

The manager returned and announced that the police had been called and that we were in his store illegally. The lady with the white hair asked if she could buy a book. At first he said no, he wanted her to leave. But then he seemed to realise that this was silly. There was then some negotiation which I missed but it led to the books being brought to her by one of the security men. Inevitably the books were the two written by Andrew Malcolm. The manager then insisted that she go to the tills in order to pay, the tills being located next to the exit on the ground floor. Sensing a ploy to eject her she refused, insisting that payment could be taken from her right there. She was very keen to buy the books, probably in the belief that it validated her presence in the book shop thus making the manager’s efforts to remove us seem ever more ridiculous. Once again he relented, in the end I suppose he reasoned that he was there to sell books. A portable credit card swipe machine was brought and the transaction completed.

We continued to wait for the policemen. Another person joined us, clearly a friend of the Malcolm’s and an active supporter of the "cause" - whatever that might be. What little I did learn about the cause was from Malcolm, his wife and the white haired lady. Andrew Malcolm had written a book called Making Names, some form of philosophy text. It had been accepted for publication by Oxford University Press, then later rejected. Since that time Malcolm had been suing for breach of contract, etc. Naturally I asked if there was actually a contract, the answer was "yes effectively". Clearly this was the nub of the dispute. I also learned that the author had set up his own bookshop in Oxford’s Broad St for two months during the summer. It was genuinely used for selling his books but was also the centre for his campaign against OUP and, I guess, sited as it was in the street that is home to the original Press, cocked a snook at his enemy.

About half an hour into our vigil the least pierced of the security men made an appeal. This whole thing was silly and a waste of time, he said. He was now late for his dinner and involving the police in a matter of this nature was a waste of their time. A few of us responded to this by saying that it was Borders that had wasted our time by cancelling this event at the last moment. If, regardless of the cancellation, they had allowed the meeting to go ahead the entire thing would be over by now. I, for one, would have been a little the wiser and he could have been at home eating that all-important dinner.

The police arrived at last in the form of one young lady policeman, looking very smart in her freshly pressed white shirt and hung about with all of the technical paraphernalia that the police now carry. She was delightful. She explained that the manager was quite right, that this was private property and since he did not want us there we should leave peacefully. She listened patiently to the many objections made by Malcolm and his support crew. One objection to our removal was the lady with the white hair’s point - that she had actually purchased books whilst she was there, she held them up as if to prove the point. The policewoman looked more and more puzzled then took a deep breath and reiterated her original statement. She also said that we did have to move and refusing to do so could constitute a disturbance of the peace and trespass. She looked in exasperation at the manager of the store and said that clearly she could not eject us on her own but she could bring in other officers if necessary. She then beckoned to the manager and whisked him around the corner for a whispered parlay. I was sure that she was saying something along the lines of "What the hell is this all about, why don’t you let them hold their meeting and get rid of them?" But that is pure surmise.

She did not return so we began the wait for reinforcements. Though I had supported the spontaneous protest so far - primarily feeling aggrieved at Borders for wasting my time and for their apparent attempt to gag Malcolm - I now had my doubts. I said to Malcolm’s wife that the point had been made. Borders now looked very silly. They had called the police and prevented an event that they themselves had organised. The involvement of more police could easily be construed as wasting police time and that waste could be fairly placed at Malcolm’s door. She listened sympathetically but said it was Andrew’s decision. I put the same point to him. However, he was obviously excited by the turn of events and said that he wanted to attract the maximum publicity to his cause from this heavy-handed action by Borders.

Then the police did arrive in force. Four of them I believe, including our original police lady. A cheerful, short and powerfully built officer was spokesman. He talked only to Malcolm and soon persuaded him to leave, and we followed. Funnily enough as we mounted the escalator the security men added an extra member to our party. A tall man in his early thirties was grabbed by the elbow and told that he was banned from the store and had to leave immediately. I can only assume that he was a book thief - the company we keep!

As we rode the escalator the lady who had interviewed Edwina Curry told me that she felt emotionally drained by the whole evening. Did I feel the same way? I said that I did not so she transferred her interest to my wife, with whom she was able to commune. Outside on the street were three police cars and a number of puzzled bystanders. They wanted to know what was going on and I did not know where to begin an explanation of the affair. My wife told them simply that Borders were suppressing free speech and that they shouldn’t shop there.

The police were quite content that they had succeeded in removing us from the bookshop and my wife and I were now fully adopted members of the Andrew Malcolm supporters club. While the man with the cap and rural jacket filmed the continuing friendly interchange between the police and Oxford’s most controversial character, we were thanked for staying throughout the whole thing. Once the police had departed we were also asked to join them all for a drink. We did not, partly because they could not decide where to go, partly because we were still not sure why we were there and partly because we had somewhere else to go. Live music and beer in a city centre pub beckoned.

I have now had a little time to leaf through a copy of The Remedy, Malcolm’s second book, a copy of which he kindly gave me. It is a record of his dispute with Oxford University Press. It is well written and he makes what could be a very dry and fractious topic quite lively. My first take on the case is that it is one in which two, previously reasonable, parties have forced each other into extreme positions from which any compromise seems quite out of the question. Many people have been hurt by the case, not the least Malcolm himself and the OUP editor who initially handled the manuscript, and no one will ever rise from it smelling of roses. It is a reminder to me to choose battlefields very carefully, to accept the inevitable at times and to always ensure that whatever a publisher says about the publication of a writer’s work is obtained in writing.

What is a mystery to me is why Borders had arranged that evening’s event, advertised it quite widely, and then cancelled it at the last moment. I am not one to see conspiracies everywhere; most seeming conspiracies are actually cock-ups in my experience. But in this case ………….

Click here to see more of Rob Walters' writing