The man who writes to me from Birmingham gets angrier
and angrier. " I ask Lords, Dukes and other rich men for money, just for a £r note privately enclosed. But I get exactly nothing ! " he complains. " That Betty Grable crowd in Hollywood never go popping round to the Post Office to send me even five dollars for a new pair of trousers." He simply hates the aristocracy; they are in for torture, flogging and execution on Tower Hill ("The Windmill Theatre is in for trouble, too," he remarks in a sinister though inconsequent aside), " I have never lived properly," he says, and he longs for the " coming uprising of the Proletariat amid oceans and rivers of blood." His letters are long and frequent, his hand- writing is educated and his .style and mentality have, on the surface, much in common with Mr. Aneurin Bevan's. But of all the people I know who are trying to make money by original methods he is, I should say, the least likely to succeed.