A wet and very windy day, but six intrepid suppressives turned up in East Grinstead to rain on the official L. Ron Hubbard birthday celebrations at Saint Hill. One had problems with his colon-thetans so didn't fancy being out in the countryside for a long period and set off for a chemist's and the next pub. ARSCC (UK) directives state that at least one picketer should be wearing a fedora. Because of the high wind, Jens turned up in a woolly hat, and I had to do fedora duty.

So five of us travelled by taxi to the gates of Saint Hill, to find a row of rented white Transit vans parked opposite to the entrance. (Saint Hill is on a busy, narrow road, and normally we have to stand opposite the entrance, squashed up against the hedge) But now we could stand in the road, as traffic would have to move out to pass the vans. So we set up the boombox, and displayed the placards, to the great annoyance of the Eastern European security guard and of Scientologists driving in to celebrate the birthday. Eventually a Scientologist in a long coat emerged and told us that another van would be parked where we were standing. Obviously parking is not one of those abilities that can be sorted out by an expensive Scientology course and the van ended up at an angle, so blocking half the roadway and allowing me to deliver my anti-scientology truths safely from in its lee. Clearly the guy in the long coat was objectively aiding the suppressives. Upset by this he organised a Scientology public to park his car even further up the road, even knocking it into Tam, who was holding a placard there. Immediately afterwards the police arrived and were horrified to find that the Scientologists had blocked off half of a busy road when they had acres of parking space within Saint Hill. More senior Scientologists appeared, including Graeme Wilson, and another character who proclaimed "I'm the boss" (sorry to hear about the demotion, Graeme, but let's face it, you don't look too healthy these days, so perhaps someone younger should take over). The three of them carried on with their game about not knowing who had the keys to the vans and allowed us the best access to the gates and incoming traffic that we have ever had (Thanks to whichever mole in Saint Hill organised that for us).

After an hour taxis arrived to take us to the Ship pub opposite Scientology's new low-profile site in East Grinstead. We watched some rugby on television, had some food and a few beers, then crossed the road to picket again. The unholy trinity were there again, plus Graeme was accompanied by some blonde female who gave the police an ear-bashing for not shutting us up. When one of the picketers approached her, she asked for a leaflet, and then snatched the lot - to no avail as we had plenty more .Two separate Scientologists tried to grab placards out of our hands and had to be pursued by the police (the same guys who had been outside Saint Hill) to have the errors of their ways explained to them, with Graeme and blonde acting as ineffectual counsels for the defence. ("The boss" kept a discreet distance away) When we returned to the pub, we were actually greeted with a round of applause from people who had been watching us through the window, which shows how unpopular Scientology has become in its last UK redoubt.

We had a few more beers and then set off home.

From Thomas J Best Five of the usual suspects, armed collectively with boom box, pamphlets, and placards, managed to find each other as (loosely) planned at Victoria Station to catch a handy train to East Grinstead. A sixth SP climbed aboard in the vicinity of Croydon.

Arrival was uneventful, except that one SP was disabled by an attack of Tummy Wogs! We counselled the poor victim to go seek a 'Touch Assist', but he insisted on finding a pharmacy. Can you believe it!? We made arrangements to meet later.

Pausing only for brief refreshment, we hopped a couple of cabs out to the Saint Hill Manor gates. We began to set up opposite the gates. We couldn't picket by the gates on their side of the road, being their property. There were a couple of hired vans/people movers parked on the roadside where we were, but not directly opposite the gates.

There was a uniformed Caucasian male in a small gatehouse (to our left as we looked across the road) who was very quickly on the radio as the placards were unfurled and the litany of fraud, deceipt, quackery and thuggery, interspersed with *free* teachings about Xenu and Body Thetans boomed across the tarmac.

Shortly thereafter, a burly and very annoyed Caucasian male appeared from the main gatehouse (called 'Main Lodge') on the right of the gates. He berated us for disturbing his lunch with our racket, claiming "I'm not one of them, but I'm going to complain to the police!" (Or words to that effect.) That was fine, we said. We apologised for disturbing his lunch, and advised him that peace and tranquillity would be restored shortly. He harrumphed a bit more, then went back in, closing his five- bar gate behind him.

Things began to hot up then. A number of agitated people appeared from the grounds. Our lead SP reported that Graeme Wilson, head of PR in the UK, had arrived. He'd bolted across the road into the grounds with nary a glance at us. Then the 'tech' was deployed in all it's glory.

A mid-20s Caucasian male, skinny, blond, glasses, wearing a calf-length black woollen coat (of good cut and quality) began directing another people mover into position behind those already parked across from the gates. Right in front of our boom box and picketing spot!

This action was met by cries of: "Hiding! Where is 'hiding' on the Tone Scale? See 'parking tech' in action!"

The people in the van were so distraught that they couldn't actually complete a proper parallel park, so the rear end of the van stuck out into the road!

Any traffic coming from our right heading towards the gates had to slow to a crawl to negotiate the turn into the grounds! We could stand right behind the van with our placards, safe from passing traffic, and enturbulate the hell out of them! It worked a treat!

*Who* was responsible for the incompetent application of 'hiding tech'? There has to be a 'who', surely? At least a 'PTP'? Maybe a full-blown 'SP'? Oh, say it isn't so. Traffic wasn't heavy, but regular. I'd say that about one in four or five cars passing from that direction (as well as a couple of other people movers) turned into the Manor. They all got an eyeful and an earful.

The assembled victims who'd been ordered to 'make it go right' milled about the gate (mostly behind the little gatehouse), clearly disturbed.

Then an astonishing thing occurred. There was a brief flurry of traffic, I was calling out in my best Tone 40: "You can get away! You can be free! It won't cost you a penny! Just walk away! They have no power!", when the coat guy appeared by me and said: "You've got to move."

"Eh?", said I, "I'm on a public road, I'm not obliged to move for you or anyone else." "He's going to park here", he said, gesturing behind me. Blow me down, there's a couple of publics in an ancient Ford, edging in.

"No", I said, "if he wants to park, there's fifty-odd acres of ground across the road. Let him park there." Now the coat guy said something that took my breath away: "If he has to, he'll run you over." All this time, he was gesturing at the driver to keep coming on. The passenger leaned out of his window and called: "Move! We want to park!" I replied: "No!"

The idiot driver actually nosed his bumper up against my leg! I looked at coat guy and said, *very* fiercely: "You've just set yourself up for a charge of aggravated assault." Meanwhile, our lead SP had arrived and asked coat guy to repeat what he'd just said. Just then, a couple of local bobbies arrived, blue lights flashing on their Noddy Car. Phew! The publics in the old Ford disappeared sharpish and coat guy also took a powder.

The bobbies began what appeared to be some forceful conversation with the assembled denizens of the hive, started noting down number plates of the parked vans, and asked us, politely and civilly, how we were doing. To which we replied: "We're fine. Glad to see you. Thanks for coming. Horrible weather."

By this time, another senior victim had appeared. He behaved in a most truculent manner, demanding to see the bobbie's numbers. It seems, from what I was told by another SP, that the coat guy fingered this new guy as his boss.

Shortly thereafter, another squad car appeared, soon followed by a Divy van, blue lights flashing. From what I can gather, the head honcho of the day's watch had been called out because the clams were complaining that the bobbies weren't doing enough to get rid of us!

Soon, there were five bobbies, two of whom spent most of their time directing traffic around the van that the idiots had parked. The head honcho asked us if this was our van! Bwahahahahaha! He was *not* pleased. The picket went on from there, uneventful, really. There was a bit more moaning and griping from a female Caucasian who emerged from the 'Main Lodge' building. Another couple of female Caucasians emerged from the grounds and engaged one of the traffic bobbies in an extended bit of palaver to no apparent effect.

Then, after a good solid hour's ruination of Ron's Birthday Party (Yah! Boo! Sucks to you, Ron!) we whistled up a couple of cabs and headed back into East Grinstead.

Our cab driver was vastly amused by the shenanigans. Like all cab drivers, her opinions went something along the lines of: "Know what yer mean, squire, ought to be strung up, the lot of them".....:-)

Back in town we found our disabled colleague much recovered, having purchased for a trifling sum a disgusting pink concoction which, he said, "Was like Plaster of Paris with bubble gum flavouring....."

More refreshments were taken. There is no hardship we will not endure. (Except, I really don't want to have to watch our lead SP manouevre his face around a triple-decker sandwich again! Please?)

The hostelry we had chosen happened to have an excellent view of the store front in East Grinstead. It soon became clear (hehehe) that the victims were bracing for another session.

Graeme Wilson was spotted. So was coat guy and his truculent boss. There was a deal of coming and going. Oh well. Perhaps it was time to begin Part The Second?

Nahhhh..... Ireland and Italy's rugby teams were hammering each other on the wide-screen TV. There was plenty of beer on tap. Let 'em stew.......

Finally, we dragged our sorry arses across the road, with the boom box and leaflets and placards, and began again. The weather was very blustery, but not, thankfully, seriously raining. Xenu cared for us in some small measure.

The local bobbies were *very* much in evidence. We had a brief discussion with the Watch Commander about which placards we could use. Apparently, some of them had been reported as being 'hate speech' and 'incitement'! Well! Imagine!

Not inclined to spend any time at the local nick arguing about Free Speech rights, we simply used the remaining placards that hadn't been complained about.

I had a few words with the Watch Commander about making a formal complaint. No problems. I've got his number. He's got mine. The local bobbies stationed themselves across the road, and we were going again.

Leaflet 'tech' worked a treat. I'd say that at least a third of people I offered took one. Of the rest, at least half declined, saying: "We know about them. Keep it up!"

Graeme Wilson and an unidentified female Caucasian were in almost constant earnest conversation with the bobbies across the road. To what end I have no knowledge.

We occupied the pavement outside the near-invisible store front, ranging up and down. At one point, the apparent owner of a fish and chip shop two doors up, which was *closed*, turned up with a couple of minders and demanded that we not use the footpath in front of his shop! Oh, dear!

Being the nasty evil SPs we are, we said: "Sure". Which meant that all six of us were now concentrated on a shorter stretch of footpath closer to their store front! Bwahahaha!

We were being constantly videod from inside the store. There were about four or five victims stationed in and outside. The truculent guy who'd been fingered by the coat guy earlier was visible now and again, but half a block down the street and across the road.

I was surprised to be the subject of two separate attempts to rip the placard I was carrying from my hands.

Both times, we were able to call in the local bobbies and have the perpetrators given a Severe Reality Adjustment. Both times, Wilson's female offsider and the truculent guy swiftly got themselves involved in the discussions between the bobbies and the hapless publics tasked to disrupt our peaceful picket.

The local press turned up, too, with a real photographer - I know, because I got to see his NUJ Card and his newspaper ID. He was most intrigued about somebody who'd come all the way from Australia for this event. I had, sadly, to disabuse him. I hadn't come for this, but it *was* fun!

All in all, it was a *most* satisfying celebration of El Rum's Birthday. Pity I wasn't born a week later. It could have been my party too.

End of all good things..... off to the local rubbidy....

I was accosted by three or four local people with much laughter and bonhomie. One of them said, "If you'd only let us know.."

Hmmmm..... now *there's* a thought. What kind of mass enturbulation could ensue? I reckon that the local chapter of ARSCC(wdne) should think about notifying local interest groups. Parish Councils? Neighbourhood Watch? How many subterreanean SPs could be called forth?