Last word
Full of noises
Geoffrey Wheatcroft
Last week I began this column by describing a recent court case. To do so again might seem uninspired or samey. But it is not every day that you open a paper, as I did last Saturday, to see that one of your oldest friends has been up in front of the beaks. The guilty man this time was Mr Robert MacDonald of Belgravia, the well-known publisher and bon viveur. He was on a less serious charge than the Cardiff canicide; and his offence was one for which it is possible to congratulate him Without any reservations at all. In the small hours of the morning, having been kept long awake by a burglar alarm tinging near his flat, he tried to silence it, eventually knocking it off the wall. I don't blame Robert. Nor do hundreds of thousands of Londoners, who should all of them buy him a drink in appreciation (he would like that). Nor, even, did the Marlborough Street magistrates: they granted him an absolute discharge. This effective condonation leaves an Interesting legal position. It has previously been illegal to silence burglar alarms. Even the police may not stop them ringing without Permission from the owner of the premises. The result we all know. There is scarcely a street in central London where a burglar alarm does not go off every other night. They nog, and ring, and ring. The result is also absurd, since the police not only don't stop the alarms, they presumably take no notice of i them. What happens when the alarm is, n fact, announcing a burglary? Alarms are installed, I understand, for insurance reasons: a prominent red box on the wall 1.-educes the premium. But by now the more Intellectual and reflective burglar must have noticed that we are in what might be called a crying-wolf situation, and have decided that the best way to conduct a robbery is with the bell banging away and the neighbours cursing and the bobby on the beat passing by. Am !wrong? Perhaps we could have Sir Robert Mark's comments (no, perhaps not). Indeed, the police force itself is not blamele ss of adding to the cacophony of London life: it was a sorry day when police cars— and ambulances and fire engines— replaced their bells with fortissimo sirens.
It may be that outrage at aural abuse is confined to people with peculiarly sensitive ears — those like Robert and myself who actually like music— but I don't think so. The town is full of noises and everyone suffers. There is now so much noise in our lives — Juggernaut lorries, pneumatic drills,Jet i aeroplanes, electric bells — that silence s a blessing of positive value. It could, I suppose, be argued on libertarian grounds that there is a right to make noise as and when it pleases; in which case I am positively Stalinist on the issue. I would support any measure, however ferocious, that lowered the aggregate decibel total in our cities. And I trust that it will cover not only deafening noise but the more insidiously brain-damaging noise of electronic jingles and muzak. I have often asked pubs and hotels to turn off the muzak, occasionally with success. I had one such struggle some years ago in Wexford, where I now write. The hotel I was staying at had installed muzak and had decided that, for the benefit of the clientele during Festival week, it would play 'Till Eulenspiegel', over and over again. I had to wait a longtime in the foyer for someone to arrive. I might have read or I might have written or I might have just thought. But with that piece of music—which I've always detested anyway — coming over the loud-speakers again and again and again just staying sane required one's full concentration.
On that occasion there was no opportunity for MacDonaldian sabotage. On others there has been. If ever I find myself in the dock I shall have to ask for at least one other case of stopping an alarm to be taken into consideration. And once, returning from Ireland, having pleaded and pleaded unsuccessfully with the purser to turn off the muzak playing throughout the ship I took matters into my own hands (it was admittedly late in the evening), located a loudspeaker and put it out of commission with a penknife. Muzak-makers watch out: I shall do it again.
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