tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16216157672380698492024-03-05T05:59:03.937-08:00Not localUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger29125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1621615767238069849.post-79657034343458289472020-12-09T14:13:00.000-08:002020-12-09T14:13:23.877-08:00So I found out what happened to the painting of the slave trader - It's proudly on display in The Box <p>A painting of the former slave trader and Plymouth seafaring legend which was bought in 1928 by newspaper owners for Plymouth museum remains in the care of The Box.</p><p> Research by me <a href="https://www.plymouthherald.co.uk/news/history/plymouth-square-named-after-slave-4308620" rel="Follow" target="_self">following the controversial decision to remove the street sign honouring Sir John Hawkins from the square next to Plymouth Magistrates' Court</a> uncovered a <a href="https://twitter.com/WMNNews" rel="Follow" target="_self">Western Morning News</a> and Mercury clipping from January 7, 1928 which announced how the proprietors of the newspaper, Sir R Leicester Harmsworth and Mr Harold C Harmsworth had purchased a painting of the seafarer "for presentation to the town". </p><p>You'll find all the details (and can laugh at the name of the one-time <br />art gallery's committee chairman Mr Bastard <a href="http://notlocalcarleve.blogspot.com/2020/07/sir-john-hawkins-square-how-past.html" target="_blank">here</a>)</p><p>Headlined "Famous Painting of Sir John Hawkins - Presented to Plymouth By The Western Morning News" the article claimed the historic painting was by Italian artist Federigo Zuccaro and described Admiral Sir John Hawkins as "the famous Elizabethan sea captain, who was born at Plymouth in 1532 and represented the borough in Parliament in 1572".</p><p>The article explained that the painting was to be presented to the Plymouth Museum and Art Gallery Committee "in perpetuity".</p><p>At the time it revealed that the Viscountess Astor was also "keenly interested in the picture", but on learning of the Harmsworth's plan to gift the painting to the city, she "graciously waived an option to purchase".</p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoTOgNiLfciq9ChI676M8q7l9MouMvZjWWa0qZbhfEPIKQWL7RrbaQAY-NASscNp2FatGtjb_zVqDiuUYVSyK8LgLqgpd7u3BrAiPYzhStvjHmLcfKbWCUt-EbpRZYLyisxnIXDI6IyVOf/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img alt="" data-original-height="942" data-original-width="688" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoTOgNiLfciq9ChI676M8q7l9MouMvZjWWa0qZbhfEPIKQWL7RrbaQAY-NASscNp2FatGtjb_zVqDiuUYVSyK8LgLqgpd7u3BrAiPYzhStvjHmLcfKbWCUt-EbpRZYLyisxnIXDI6IyVOf/" width="175" /></a></p><p>If you read my last blog you'll already know the report noted how it was "fitting that a portrait of one ranking among the first of those to whose undaunted spirit Britain's sea supremacy is due should be in possession of the town of Plymouth, for John Hawkins was not only born here, but he represented the borough in Parliament, and though the official records contain no direct proof of the fact, he was also at one time the Mayor of Plymouth."</p><p>It added: "Zuccaro's painting bears the date 1591 and is described by Mr A J Caddie, curator of the Plymouth Museum and Art Gallery, as a superb half-length Elizabethan period painting on panel."</p><p>Mr Caddie was reported as saying that the painting "is in a fine state of preservation and has never been in any way restored, whilst, furthermore, it has never been out of the possession of the Hawkins family from the time it was painted until the present day. It was obtained from Miss Hawkins, of Torquay, by Mr J Rochelle Thomas" who sold it to the Harmsworths.</p><p>The detailed report noted how Mr Caddie had seen the portrait advertised and recognising its potential value to Plymouth, informed the museum and art gallery's committee chairman, Mr W L Bastard.</p><p>The article, which took up most of Page 7 of the paper, revealed that at Mr Bastard's insistence Mr Caddie travelled to London where he met with Viscountess Astor at her St James' square residence and inspected the portrait. While the article noted that she wanted it for herself, she was willing to allow "the Plymouth Corporation" to buy it if they could produce the £500 asking price.</p><p>According to a number of art websites, Zuccaro's works currently hang in the Louvre, the National Portrait Gallery, the Royal Collection, the Hermitage Museum in St Petersburg, the Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam, the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City, and the Art Institute of Chicago. At one stage Zuccaro was employed by Pope Pius IV and painted "The History of Moses and Pharaoh".</p><p>The 1928 Western Morning News article went on to give a potted history of Sir John Hawkins, noting that he was the son of William Hawkins, who was not only "a great Plymouth sea captain" himself but also "a friend of bluff King Hal" [the unkind nickname for King Henry the Eighth] and "sometime mayor of the borough".</p><p> It added that Sir John was born in a house in Kinterbury Street, Plymouth in 1532, twelve years before the birth of Sir Francis Drake at <a href="https://www.plymouthherald.co.uk/all-about/tavistock" rel="Follow" target="_self">Tavistock</a>. </p><p>It added: "After several trips to Spain and Portugal and the Canary Islands, his first great voyage was begun in 1562, then he was thirty years of age. He sought to establish himself as a trader to the West Indies. The expedition, fitted out at Plymouth, consisted of three ships of 120, 100 and 40 tons burthen respectively, and was engaged principally in the slave trade, not then regarded in the same light as at the present age."</p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC-bw36w38_EqFAMHS27LR4_Khx4750_RNtnEXjy0IYKmZgUVPQoiCsoC6cd0MRY8O8-jp8V_ms5wLSV-6GESIHVgA4Q471yE1uP7DLI9RhxjpLtaEp4hSKrM1JUwQXBcVbbW3jg9h2vGb/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img alt="" data-original-height="898" data-original-width="630" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC-bw36w38_EqFAMHS27LR4_Khx4750_RNtnEXjy0IYKmZgUVPQoiCsoC6cd0MRY8O8-jp8V_ms5wLSV-6GESIHVgA4Q471yE1uP7DLI9RhxjpLtaEp4hSKrM1JUwQXBcVbbW3jg9h2vGb/" width="168" /></a></p><p>Following his three trading trips he was promoted to Treasurer to the British Navy which the article notes was: "a post for which all his qualities recommended him".</p><p>It claimed: "A great citizen of Plymouth and England, he was amongst the pioneers in that band of English seamen whose heritage to their country is beyond estimation. He was a freeman of the borough of Plymouth".</p><p> Turns out, after I did a little more digging, I was able to confirmed that the painting still remains in the possession of <a href="https://www.plymouthherald.co.uk/all-about/the-box" rel="Follow" target="_self">The Box</a>, the new name for <a href="https://www.plymouthherald.co.uk/whats-on/whats-on-news/box-plymouth-named-second-top-3783257">the £42million complex</a> in <a href="https://www.plymouthherald.co.uk/all-about/north-hill">North Hill</a> which combines the former museum and art gallery with other remarkable cultural and historical items relating to Plymouth. </p><p>However, it turns out that research carried out in the 1960s revealed that it was not painted by Zuccaro, but by an artist called Hieronymus Custodis, a Flemish portrait painter active in England during the reign of Elizabeth 1. The painting is currently on display in The Box's "100 Journeys' gallery.</p><p> A spokesperson for <a href="https://www.plymouthherald.co.uk/all-about/the-box" rel="Follow" target="_self">The Box</a> said: "The most likely explanation is that it was attributed to Zuccaro at the time but over the decades since, and as a result of improved research/digitisation/collections care, it’s now attributed to Hieronymous Custodius. It’s not unusual for this sort of thing to come to light in historic museum collections from time to time – especially with objects or works of art that are as old as this painting." </p><p>They added: "A historic reattribution doesn’t diminish the cultural and educational value of a public collection that includes a portrait of a figure with local ties and global impact.</p><p>"Paintings by Custodis are rare, so even though he has less name-recognition than Zuccaro, the portrait of Sir John Hawkins still holds important art historical value.</p><p>"Our records show the painting has been attributed to Custodis since the 1960s.</p><p>"The original attribution to Zuccaro was probably due to the excitement around the Italian artist’s visit to England in the 1570s. He was only here for a short while though, so many portraits once attributed to him have now been reassessed."</p><p>According to historians, Custodis, a native of Antwerp, was one of a number of Flemish artists of the Tudor court who had fled to England to avoid the persecution of Protestants in the Spanish Netherlands. One of his portraits, of Field Marshal Sir William Pelham, Lird Justice of Ireland, sold at Sotheby's in 2009 for a reported $92,001 US.</p><p>Clearly, Mr Bastard would have been rather put out by this turn of events...</p>Carl Evehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03930750600999601721noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1621615767238069849.post-14733114420668068842020-07-08T14:43:00.002-07:002020-07-08T15:59:00.973-07:00 Sir John Hawkins Square - how the past catches up with us<h4>
<span style="color: white; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b style="background-color: black;">Plymouth has more than one link with the controversial seafaring legend and despicable slave-trader</b></span></h4>
<div style="line-height: 15.6px; margin-bottom: 0.25cm;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 15.6px; margin-bottom: 0.25cm;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">Since the explosion of protest and counter-protest following the killing of George Floyd and the super-charged return of the Black Lives Matter movement, many eyes have focused on some of England's darker past - and parts.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 15.6px; margin-bottom: 0.25cm;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">Last month, the country watched as Bristolians tore down a statue of slave trader Edward Colston and hurled the bronze Grade II listed structure into the harbour to resounding cheers.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 15.6px; margin-bottom: 0.25cm;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">This in turn saw counter-protesters - some of whom appeared to have more affiliations with the Nazi-salute-throwing far-right than studious historical conservationists - form lines around other statues claiming they were protecting them from the Black Lives Matter supporters.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 15.6px; margin-bottom: 0.25cm;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">This, in turn, was followed by confrontations by said statue protectors and police ending in shocking violence in the nation's capital. Because nothing says patriotism and historical protectionism than drinking warm Stella, ripping off your Union Jack T-shirt and kicking a copper from behind.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 15.6px; margin-bottom: 0.25cm;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">Plymouth became <a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://www.plymouthherald.co.uk/news/plymouth-news/name-slave-trader-sir-john-4208802&source=gmail&ust=1594328246443000&usg=AFQjCNFOwixRkj_sTdIML2zJmkVnHTYh4Q" href="https://www.plymouthherald.co.uk/news/plymouth-news/name-slave-trader-sir-john-4208802" target="_blank">quickly drawn into the furore when it was pointed out the city had produced what was, effectively, the nation's first slave trader and had honoured him by naming a square after him</a>. In fairness Plymouth also produced comedian and actress Dawn French, Olympic swimmer Sharron Davies and footballer Trevor Francis. So, you know, not all bad.</span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz4hDR76pSaKDzDVtV_HHbH-xaDyO7AmHedy1E7TbSbb44p5eoXli4cPvkrFB45kPwNZz7Z3JRl-4Ryf3JS1Tt-N-Yx6qnB5aDO9xwbIVTIcxB92jS3etwuUnmV7IrqCOcw-NKA4BG8XBZ/s1600/John_Hawkins.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1308" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz4hDR76pSaKDzDVtV_HHbH-xaDyO7AmHedy1E7TbSbb44p5eoXli4cPvkrFB45kPwNZz7Z3JRl-4Ryf3JS1Tt-N-Yx6qnB5aDO9xwbIVTIcxB92jS3etwuUnmV7IrqCOcw-NKA4BG8XBZ/s320/John_Hawkins.jpg" width="261" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">Sir John Hawkins</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 15.6px; margin-bottom: 0.25cm;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">Sir John Hawkins Square is nestled between Plymouth Magistrates' Court, The Mission restaurant, The Swan public house, Kitty O'Hanlon's pub and the dBs Music Plymouth. It is but a few yards from the Elizabethan House and it's probably best known to many people in the city as a place you cut through to get from Notte Street to Royal Parade, while trying to avoid an assortment of men, many of whom appear to sit in the square for long periods of the daytime with tins of extra-strength alcohol kept in a carrier bag.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">Plymouth City Council <a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://www.plymouthherald.co.uk/news/plymouth-news/challenge-removal-slave-trader-john-4253464&source=gmail&ust=1594328246443000&usg=AFQjCNFKW037AcsAIn3WQutEJriJNIAt5g" href="https://www.plymouthherald.co.uk/news/plymouth-news/challenge-removal-slave-trader-john-4253464" target="_blank">reacted surprisingly swiftly to the tsunami of steely questions about the square</a> - ripping off the street name and confirming they would seek suggestions for a new, more suitable, far-less divisive name. Currently, it appears the plan is to name it after <a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://www.plymouthherald.co.uk/news/plymouth-news/sir-john-hawkins-square-set-4242196&source=gmail&ust=1594328246444000&usg=AFQjCNH5pS6QUB3gJYsegT-i_ibCTRYHVA" href="https://www.plymouthherald.co.uk/news/plymouth-news/sir-john-hawkins-square-set-4242196" target="_blank">pioneering Plymouth Argyle player Jack Leslie</a> - the only professional black player in England when he played for the club between 1921 and 1934.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="color: white;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"></table>
</span></span>
<br />
<div style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 15.6px; margin-bottom: 0.25cm;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">He scored more than 137 goals for Argyle in 401 appearances and remains the Pilgrims' fourth highest goal-scorer of all time.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 15.6px; margin-bottom: 0.25cm;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">The only clue given to how, or when Sir John Hawkins came to have a square named after him was given by council leader Tudor Evans who announced on June 9 that it was "created in the early 1980s".</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1LvO5ctHhgS1svsNnl5aYl-5wZtVIQ-uOot5joU4hQbnq260lu2EqH_bQ-vcPPPfK6nfg9sTCrmmxM6no6UaX2nPP-KZ6cKaeaFtcCeo-fzheyr7jVOnQOQFNxIqglERTlv-kKDul-qUC/s1600/Sir+John+Hawkins+Square2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><img border="0" data-original-height="585" data-original-width="851" height="219" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1LvO5ctHhgS1svsNnl5aYl-5wZtVIQ-uOot5joU4hQbnq260lu2EqH_bQ-vcPPPfK6nfg9sTCrmmxM6no6UaX2nPP-KZ6cKaeaFtcCeo-fzheyr7jVOnQOQFNxIqglERTlv-kKDul-qUC/s320/Sir+John+Hawkins+Square2.JPG" width="320" /></span></a></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 15.6px; margin-bottom: 0.25cm;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="m_-4883903964745935341__6f8e6e5c-46f5-45f8-84a1-02371b4b8041"></a></span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 15.6px; margin-bottom: 0.25cm;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">The Elizabethan seafarer from Plymouth is considered to be the first English slave trader, transporting captured Africans to work on plantations in the Americas in the 16th Century. Born in Plymouth in 1532 he became a sea captain</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 15.6px; margin-bottom: 0.25cm;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">In 1562 he became the first Englishman to start capturing people from Guinea, in West Africa and selling them as slaves to Spanish West Indies - which provoked conflict with the Spanish authorities who did not allow unauthorised foreigners to trade with their colonies. Problematic trading with Europe? Like that's going to happen again in 2020, hmm?</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 15.6px; margin-bottom: 0.25cm;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">After his first slave-trading voyage was so financially successful he was able to raise even more money thanks to a syndicate of London merchants - and Queen Elizabeth I - to make a second expedition.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 15.6px; margin-bottom: 0.25cm;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">Consider this - his coat of arms bore a bound slave. The Queen at the time, invested part of her sizeable fortune in the purchase and sale of African slaves with the intent of getting a healthy return for her money. You do wonder how many streets in England are named after Queen Elizabeth I.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 15.6px; margin-bottom: 0.25cm;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">There is a statue of Queen Elizabeth I - it is London's oldest statue and the only one remaining that was carved during her reign. It's tucked up in a niche on the wall of the church of St Dunstan in the West, on Fleet Street. You know, Fleet Street? Where the #mediascum hashtag is based?</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 15.6px; margin-bottom: 0.25cm;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">Hawkins' third voyage was less successful. According to the Encyclopeadia Britannica, he and Sir Francis Drake - <a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://www.plymouthherald.co.uk/news/history/uncomfortable-truths-sir-francis-drake-4211299&source=gmail&ust=1594328246444000&usg=AFQjCNH3YbXoTTopxFoOTa1vcZ376n8j6g" href="https://www.plymouthherald.co.uk/news/history/uncomfortable-truths-sir-francis-drake-4211299" target="_blank">yes, statue, bowls on the Hoe, questionable slave-trade history of his own, that Sir Francis</a> - having sold the slaves in the Caribbean: "Hawkins was forced by needed repairs and lack of water to take refuge at San Juan de Ulua, near Veracruz, Mexico.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 15.6px; margin-bottom: 0.25cm;">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDR1RmtaWxqBiF9Yc1CWng6qc2f7FiRFSGLaITrCPQysJ02qDesXPq3oU3GQR3122_t6CfWzgQ22FAf565txFgBC54e6dYRE2e0BRKjVliY8e5DhglMz48ZJGKgBiReFKi4zVHiLNuGGHJ/s1600/francis-drake.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDR1RmtaWxqBiF9Yc1CWng6qc2f7FiRFSGLaITrCPQysJ02qDesXPq3oU3GQR3122_t6CfWzgQ22FAf565txFgBC54e6dYRE2e0BRKjVliY8e5DhglMz48ZJGKgBiReFKi4zVHiLNuGGHJ/s320/francis-drake.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">Sir Francis Drake</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="m_-4883903964745935341__b3579771-27fe-4d27-a9ce-fffb40c13c65"></a></span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 15.6px; margin-bottom: 0.25cm;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">A Spanish fleet attacked him in the harbour, and, of the six ships, only the two commanded by Hawkins and Drake were able to escape. This episode marked the beginning of the long quarrel between England and Spain that eventually led to open war in 1585."</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 15.6px; margin-bottom: 0.25cm;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">From here Hawkins was involved in uncovering the plot which would have seen English Roman Catholics, with Spanish assistance, depose Queen Elizabeth and install Mary Stuart, Queen of Scots, on the English throne. Hawkins informed his government and the plotters were arrested.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 15.6px; margin-bottom: 0.25cm;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">He went on to become the treasurer of the navy, assume the additional duties of controller and set about rebuilding the British navy - apparently often using his own money - which went on to withstand the Spanish Armada in 1588. As third in command during the Armada crisis - which earned him a knighthood - he then set about blockades to intercept Spanish treasure ships returning from the New World.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 15.6px; margin-bottom: 0.25cm;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">In 1595, Hawkins and Drake sailed with 27 ships to raid the Spanish West Indies. Hawkins died the night before an unsuccessful attack on Puerto Rico.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 15.6px; margin-bottom: 0.25cm;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">On July 22, 1983 - 388 years after his death - a city engineer's report for the Plymouth Highways Sub-committee on the topic of "street naming and numbering" is the only reference as to how Sir John Hawkins - slaver, entrepreneur, war-causer and loyal subject - got his name attached to one of the most unattractive buildings in the city - built in 1979 - overlooking an equally ugly squidge of cobbled-and concrete-slabbed ground.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 15.6px; margin-bottom: 0.25cm;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">In the driest of council-speak terms, and best read in a nasal voice that would probably grate steel, the document notes that "following the consideration by the Policy and Resources Committee and the Public Services Committee, the last meeting of this Committee asked for proposals to be presented to commemorate the names of Sir John Hawkins and the City of Gdynia."</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieERrsEb8sApMLFfCt4J0OBgp0lRZmxNGQM1GHmhHoHtcn-Z4Qv-Nccs74KK1Tgq7KdU9fWUuMitLwOk56KFPd26qG3lyK7F7Scs6G-r9v1X4TrzGlVnTr5OAq_vBBYM8HyUC_H8A4JzDi/s1600/Sir+John+Hawkins+Square.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><img border="0" data-original-height="612" data-original-width="886" height="221" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieERrsEb8sApMLFfCt4J0OBgp0lRZmxNGQM1GHmhHoHtcn-Z4Qv-Nccs74KK1Tgq7KdU9fWUuMitLwOk56KFPd26qG3lyK7F7Scs6G-r9v1X4TrzGlVnTr5OAq_vBBYM8HyUC_H8A4JzDi/s320/Sir+John+Hawkins+Square.JPG" width="320" /></span></a></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 15.6px; margin-bottom: 0.25cm;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="m_-4883903964745935341__5dee9c0a-7edc-4c6b-ae73-8ab91b1e1930"></a></span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 15.6px; margin-bottom: 0.25cm;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">For Sir John Hawkins, the document explains: "Because of Sir John Hawkins' association with the Elizabethan period and the importance of his contributions towards the standing of the old City, it is felt that the commemoration should be linked with the Elizabethan part of the City in the vicinity of the Magistrates Court.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 15.6px; margin-bottom: 0.25cm;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">"The most suitable streets for renaming are Abbey Place, St Andrew's Place, St Andrew's Street and Finewell Street. The first three streets already have strong connections with the area and, although Finewell Street does not have buildings with an address upon it and as such would be the easiest to rename, it has been in existence for a number of years.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 15.6px; margin-bottom: 0.25cm;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">"There is, however, a hard landscaped area to the east of the Magistrates Court (cross hatched on the accompanying plan) which is unnamed and which could be further improved.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 15.6px; margin-bottom: 0.25cm;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">"The options, therefore, appear to be the renaming of Finewell Street as Sir John Hawkins Street, or the naming of the landscaped area as Sir John Hawkins Square."</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 15.6px; margin-bottom: 0.25cm;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">How apt - but for the whims of the Plymouth Highways Sub-committee of July 1983, a dead-end street at the rear end of the Elizabethan House and bordering the back of Catherine Street Baptist church where the homeless try and find safe shelter could have been named after our great naval sailor and pre-eminent inaugural slave trader.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 15.6px; margin-bottom: 0.25cm;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">By comparison, and just for the fun of it, there's a Sir John Hawkins car park in Chatham, Kent.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 15.6px; margin-bottom: 0.25cm;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="m_-4883903964745935341__7578bfd6-8108-41d9-828d-59ddd3af5541"></a></span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 15.6px; margin-bottom: 0.25cm;">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggvxIJUoX7gVzx_uYTLKE6gR-OCcqMVtFXBtn4kLBFHvWC-Kf4CVsEh62bod50nuneEtfblYhubuEfRU5nHE3xN7kPVzKqEusAb-fAJWMiInMcFavJrTmmsKyvGPz49fRlqWJmJJEOMKJK/s1600/_112825780_eaj7ogcvcaqeyuo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><img border="0" data-original-height="371" data-original-width="660" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggvxIJUoX7gVzx_uYTLKE6gR-OCcqMVtFXBtn4kLBFHvWC-Kf4CVsEh62bod50nuneEtfblYhubuEfRU5nHE3xN7kPVzKqEusAb-fAJWMiInMcFavJrTmmsKyvGPz49fRlqWJmJJEOMKJK/s320/_112825780_eaj7ogcvcaqeyuo.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">Sir John Hawkins car park - you wouldn't want to be clamped here would you?</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">Yes, there have been calls to rename that too.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 15.6px; margin-bottom: 0.25cm;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">Medway Council are apparently considering it and will discuss the matter at their next meeting on July 16. Medway's leading Conservative group said it could not comment ahead of the meeting.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 15.6px; margin-bottom: 0.25cm;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">They may want to name it after someone else famous from the region.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 15.6px; margin-bottom: 0.25cm;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">Perhaps we shouldn't remind them that according to the history books Sir Francis Drake lived in nearby Upnor and learnt to sail on the Medway. But according to local newspapers Jools Holland lives nearby now. That'd be a safe bet for a car park, surely? Jools Holland car park, pay and display? Five boogie woogie length songs just £1.20. Full album including covers with Ruby Turner and Tom Jones, £4.40</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 15.6px; margin-bottom: 0.25cm;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">But let's not get all holier than though about casting stones at the council's Plymouth Highways Sub-committee of July 1983, God rest their souls.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 15.6px; margin-bottom: 0.25cm;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">I say this because for anyone doing a little bit of research, the British Newspaper Archive has a sting in its tale for this tale.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 15.6px; margin-bottom: 0.25cm;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">Next to a story about Militarism In The Schools (Teachers Condemn Propaganda. The Prime Minister Congratulated) a newspaper report from January 7, 1928, notes in stirring and blood-thickening terms how a Famous Painting of Sir John Hawkins has been Presented To Plymouth.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 15.6px; margin-bottom: 0.25cm;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">The historic painting, by Italian artist Federigo Zuccaro, of Admiral Sir John Hawkins "the famous Elizabethan sea captain, who was born at Plymouth in 1532 and represented the borough in Parliament in 1572" was to be presented to the Plymouth Museum and Art Gallery Committee "in perpetuity".</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 15.6px; margin-bottom: 0.25cm;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="m_-4883903964745935341__9f26fe52-6daa-4ee8-b1fe-3ed4cdc2de5a"></a></span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 15.6px; margin-bottom: 0.25cm;">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqLP14KuqZesVvrEbSO8RX23j4JSwQTYzlAQc3118cIfpAYrtJj-pM_zsd2WpVSzZs7FcpD8KNbZt1ICUDnoCCSd5S6wDBdrZUDGA39rZ6Q8uc9UDJjlqDVWGu9GKwWpdbR6_l0iYXxXhV/s1600/Federigo+Zuccaro%2527s+painting+of+Sir+John+Hawkins.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><img border="0" data-original-height="788" data-original-width="619" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqLP14KuqZesVvrEbSO8RX23j4JSwQTYzlAQc3118cIfpAYrtJj-pM_zsd2WpVSzZs7FcpD8KNbZt1ICUDnoCCSd5S6wDBdrZUDGA39rZ6Q8uc9UDJjlqDVWGu9GKwWpdbR6_l0iYXxXhV/s320/Federigo+Zuccaro%2527s+painting+of+Sir+John+Hawkins.JPG" width="251" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">Federigo Zuccaro's painting of Sir John Hawkins</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">The Committee "whilst fully appreciating the value and desirability of having the painting in the local gallery, they were, owing to lack of funds, unable to recommend the Council to make the purchase".</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 15.6px; margin-bottom: 0.25cm;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">Viscountess Astor - oh, she gets everywhere where there's a bit of controversy doesn't she? - "who was keenly interested in the picture, graciously waived an option to purchase which she held in order that" another wealthy group "might secure the portrait for the town of Plymouth"</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 15.6px; margin-bottom: 0.25cm;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">The report noted how "it is fitting that a portrait of one ranking among the first of those to whose undaunted spirit Britain's sea supremacy is due should be in possession of the town of Plymouth, for John Hawkins was not only born here, but he represented the borough in Parliament, and though the official records contain no direct proof of the fact, he was also at one time the Mayor of Plymouth."</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 15.6px; margin-bottom: 0.25cm;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">It goes on, somewhat breathlessly: "Zuccaro's painting bears the date 1591 and is described by Mr A J Caddie, curator of the Plymouth Museum and Art Gallery, as a superb half-length Elizabethan period painting on panel."</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 15.6px; margin-bottom: 0.25cm;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">Mr Caddie said the painting "is in a fine state of preservation and has never been in any way restored, whilst, furthermore, it has never been out of the possession of the Hawkins family from the time it was painted until the present day. It was obtained from Miss Hawkins, of Torquay, by Mr J Rochelle Thomas" who in turn sold it onto the wealthy philanthropic souls who gifted it to the city. Bless them.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 15.6px; margin-bottom: 0.25cm;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">Mr Caddie had seen the portrait advertised and recognising its potential value to Plymouth, informed the museum and art gallery's committee chairman - Mr W L Bastard.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 15.6px; margin-bottom: 0.25cm;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">Yes, that's right. Mr Bastard.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 15.6px; margin-bottom: 0.25cm;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">At Mr Bastard's insistence Mr Caddie travelled to London where he met with Viscountess Astor at her St James' square residence and inspected the portrait. She wanted it for herself, but was willing to allow "the Plymouth Corporation" to buy it - if they had the money, that is.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 15.6px; margin-bottom: 0.25cm;">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXteWIbrXg76ju32oo2uXwR0JqMN2wVpUnQw4p08i9zPuUxgkATzUKxiYjdet2H1vB0C-SMILXlWS6Vqj_ROhEdVQtgS694q-zo6fNeRwDj34Ywat-CF3Jh6gDTIMkuj_PyRJkjfh9a-Ys/s1600/220px-Nancy_Viscountess_Astor_by_John_Singer_Sargent.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><img border="0" data-original-height="338" data-original-width="220" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXteWIbrXg76ju32oo2uXwR0JqMN2wVpUnQw4p08i9zPuUxgkATzUKxiYjdet2H1vB0C-SMILXlWS6Vqj_ROhEdVQtgS694q-zo6fNeRwDj34Ywat-CF3Jh6gDTIMkuj_PyRJkjfh9a-Ys/s320/220px-Nancy_Viscountess_Astor_by_John_Singer_Sargent.jpeg" width="208" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">Viscountess Astor</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="m_-4883903964745935341__0fae3fcf-6648-4d22-8d88-743c362b8d97"></a></span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 15.6px; margin-bottom: 0.25cm;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">£500 was the asking price.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 15.6px; margin-bottom: 0.25cm;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">Now, if we take it purely as cash vs inflation £500 in 1928 is equivalent in purchasing power to about £31,617.87 in 2020.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 15.6px; margin-bottom: 0.25cm;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">But that means nothing, because if you'd bought the first edition of Action Comics in June 1938 - starring the first appearance of Superman - it would have cost you just 10 US cents. In 2011 actor Nicolas Cage sold his copy for $2.16 million. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">But then Zuccaro's works hang in the Louvre, the National Portrait Gallery, the Royal Collection, the Hermitage Museum in St Petersburg, the Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam, the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City, and the Art Institute of Chicago. And we can be quite sure not one of his paintings has a guy throwing a car-full of thieves about with a cape and a big S on his chest.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 15.6px; margin-bottom: 0.25cm;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">The article goes on to give little history lesson about Mr Hawkins. He was son of William Hawkins, a great Plymouth sea captain, "a friend of bluff King Hal" [the unkind nickname for King Henry the Eighth] and "sometime mayor of the borough".</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 15.6px; margin-bottom: 0.25cm;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">Born in a house in Kinterbury Street, Plymouth in 1532, twelve years before the birth of Sir Francis Drake at Tavistock. "After several trips to Spain and Portugal and the Canary Islands, his first great voyage was begun in 1562, then he was thirty years of age. He sought to establish himself as a trader to the West Indies. The expedition, fitted out at Plymouth, consisted of three ships of 120, 100 and 40 tons burthen respectively, and was engaged principally in the slave trade, not then regarded in the same light as at the present age."</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 15.6px; margin-bottom: 0.25cm;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">Yes, because in 1928 the western world was so enlightened, and so done with apartheid, the colour bar and lynchings. The white bedsheets had been tucked away in 1927 and there was very little burning in Mississippi and you could sit anywhere on a bus if you wanted, especially if you were black. Thank God the British government brought the Race Relations Act of 1968 forward by 40 years, but just lost the paperwork until The Beatles ironically released The White Album that year.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 15.6px; margin-bottom: 0.25cm;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">After his three "trading" trips - which is code for kidnapping or buying human beings, packing them tightly into ships and selling them into a lifetime of abuse, torture and degradation - he was promoted to Treasurer to the British Navy which the article notes was: "a post for which all his qualities recommended him".</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 15.6px; margin-bottom: 0.25cm;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="m_-4883903964745935341__c4b8d250-d936-4670-9add-881488219c69"></a></span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 15.6px; margin-bottom: 0.25cm;">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicpjFDDwLv2tkioH3gMMnoW7d3fVwKvQ_1ou1mDy4G_Sk5TKdtllWF-GMIqS6NP4uWzkbOieJ7W11MPo8SPfjPeRa15-jGopL5E1JiNdQN7rB6EUi8zJZ_utoqYf5N2WpfZfmrtgBk0N2A/s1600/Sir_john_hawkins_early_arms_colour.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><img border="0" data-original-height="599" data-original-width="398" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicpjFDDwLv2tkioH3gMMnoW7d3fVwKvQ_1ou1mDy4G_Sk5TKdtllWF-GMIqS6NP4uWzkbOieJ7W11MPo8SPfjPeRa15-jGopL5E1JiNdQN7rB6EUi8zJZ_utoqYf5N2WpfZfmrtgBk0N2A/s320/Sir_john_hawkins_early_arms_colour.jpg" width="212" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">The John Hawkins coat of arms featured a bound slave</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">One must wonder how the quality of remorselessly treating another human as a commodity purely because their skin colour was darker and they came from a foreign land transferred over to preparing the British retort to the Spanish Armada, but perhaps chains, whippings and self-enrichment has its due benefits. He was rewarded for "his gallantry in that historic battle" and "was knighted upon his own quarter-deck, on board the Victory". Probably to rousing cheers of "hurrah and hussar" with hats being tossed high into the air.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 15.6px; margin-bottom: 0.25cm;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">There's a little more in the report about how two more expeditions met with "only meagre success" - meaning he didn't make or steal much money from the Spanish - and ended with him falling ill with fever, lingering for three weeks and dying on January 28, 1596.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 15.6px; margin-bottom: 0.25cm;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">The article notes: "A great citizen of Plymouth and England, he was amongst the pioneers in that band of English seamen whose heritage to their country is beyond estimation. He was a freeman of the borough of Plymouth".</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 15.6px; margin-bottom: 0.25cm;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">A Freeman - what a horrible, horrible irony. A man who made his fortune trading in slaves is made a Freeman with all the honours which that befits.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 15.6px; margin-bottom: 0.25cm;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">And, much much later, gave his name to a forlorn piss-smelling square hidden behind a court house where desperate ne'er do wells spend their days hoping to avoid a prison cell.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 15.6px; margin-bottom: 0.25cm;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">But what of the painting, by Zuccaro who at one stage in his life was employed by Pope Pius IV and painted "The History of Moses and Pharaoh" - who certainly knew a bit about slaves himself.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 15.6px; margin-bottom: 0.25cm;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="m_-4883903964745935341__9abd967c-b1ea-41d3-916f-246fe8667cd0"></a></span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 15.6px; margin-bottom: 0.25cm;">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCZK0MX0nsybQsGsix-jeITW6qE-djyMKYg0NgH6sAwNNNk5Laj0lCiMeDh8lOD8CExsRI5Y9QaWYvQ9LkQIjHkia3Tx_N9Ao7sNTxlhvcIWWXOWAUkIXZU4DGxfnRdJJPE6jYQKaJajt3/s1600/28090757_2003-01-09_Royals_+_mark_Queen__mark_+_mark.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><img border="0" data-original-height="496" data-original-width="600" height="264" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCZK0MX0nsybQsGsix-jeITW6qE-djyMKYg0NgH6sAwNNNk5Laj0lCiMeDh8lOD8CExsRI5Y9QaWYvQ9LkQIjHkia3Tx_N9Ao7sNTxlhvcIWWXOWAUkIXZU4DGxfnRdJJPE6jYQKaJajt3/s320/28090757_2003-01-09_Royals_+_mark_Queen__mark_+_mark.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">Portrait of Queen Elizabeth I - best you don't mention investing in the slave trade though</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">Zuccaro went on to paint a "famous picture" of Queen Elizabeth I in a fancy dress at Hampton Court. Yes, that Queen - the one who invested in one of John Hawkins' entrepreneurial slave excursions. Oh, what a tangled web we weave when first we practice to buy and sell human beings for personal profit.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 15.6px; margin-bottom: 0.25cm;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">But the painting, what about the painting and the generous and charming philanthropists who happily spaffed £500 up the wall for the greater glory of Plymouth's museum and art gallery?</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 15.6px; margin-bottom: 0.25cm;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">Well, according to the article - on page seven of Saturday January 7, 1928's Western Morning News and Mercury - that'd be Sir R Leicester Harmsworth, Bart and Mr Harold C Harmsworth... proprietors of The Western Morning News.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 15.6px; margin-bottom: 0.25cm;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">Mr Bastard must've been overjoyed with their generosity.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 15.6px; margin-bottom: 0.25cm;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">Where is the painting now? Well, that's another mystery to unravel.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 15.6px; margin-bottom: 0.25cm;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 15.6px; margin-bottom: 0.25cm;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">Meanwhile, I'll leave you to ponder this...</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen="" class="YOUTUBE-iframe-video" data-thumbnail-src="https://i.ytimg.com/vi/SKo-_Xxfywk/0.jpg" frameborder="0" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/SKo-_Xxfywk?feature=player_embedded" width="320"></iframe></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 15.6px; margin-bottom: 0.25cm;">
<br /></div>
</div>
Carl Evehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03930750600999601721noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1621615767238069849.post-23267789449818702019-12-02T14:21:00.000-08:002020-01-06T01:50:28.062-08:00Suicide doesn’t end the pain, it just shares it around<div style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border: 0px; line-height: 1.8; margin-bottom: 23px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">
(I wrote this in February this year after a series of distressing inquests. Thought I'd post it here as I've been rather quiet on my blog for too long... )<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>I lost a friend to suicide - and seeing first-hand how the heartbreaking death of dad Trystan Bryant's death affected his family and those who tried to save him will stay with me forever</b><br />
<br />
The most profound statement I have ever encountered regarding suicide came from a comment to an online article on our own website.<br />
I wish I could remember who wrote it, but with the nature of online commenters, it was a made-up name. Regardless, the single line written has stuck with me for nearly a decade and I thank them for it, because it is as true as grief itself.<br />
<br />
“Suicide doesn’t end the pain, it just shares it around”<br />
<br />
Pain.<br />
<br />
Suicide is all about pain.<br />
<br />
<br />
The pain suffered by the individual becomes so profound, so all encompassing, so complete and overwhelming that they become convinced the only way to stop that pain is to stop their life. Once they have stopped that life, the pain will evaporate like morning mist as the sun comes out.<br />
<br />
It doesn’t though. Instead, the pain is handed on like a legacy. It gets willed to partners, sons, daughters, brothers and sisters, parents, friends, workmates. The pain is merely shared out so more and more and yet more people feel a part of that pain. It turns to regret and recrimination, to guilt and sadness, grief and even anger at the final decision taken. The pain gets shared around.<br />
<br />
When you go to an inquest as a reporter, especially when you go to an inquest of someone who has taken their own life, you can’t help your mind from playing a pitiful game of ‘what if?’ What would have happened if..?<br />
<br />
I have been to hundreds and hundreds of inquests and increasingly, over the last few years, I have gone to inquests where the coroner has recorded a verdict of suicide. In line with recent changes, it’s recorded as the person has taken their own life, but the old words do stick.<br />
<br />
As an industry we – I mean the media - have changed the way we report on suicides, following advice from the Samaritans and the more direct intervention of friends and family of the deceased. I’ve learned bitter lessons about how tiny, inconsequential details stick like a hot needle in the soft skin of those left grieving.<br />
<br />
Inquests, particularly suicides, are desperately sad, heartbreaking affairs. Sometimes they are short but others, where the circumstances of the death are contested, are longer, more detailed, more desperate.<br />
The inquest of <a href="https://www.plymouthherald.co.uk/news/health/22-men-weve-tragically-lost-2486360" target="_blank">Trystan Bryant</a> was possibly the most heartbreaking I’ve attended in 22 years as a reporter, not necessarily because of the untimely and too-early death of the much-loved father-of-one, but the pain he left behind.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg31w6FCWtaHG-24eabHPlkk_4AoNiGwIxVibGdiluUD7N4MAW5CeljGVnEwNuFUVPGJaPaFfRVemBXwJa_0DqJRmRy4If-nxMKKEoakU2S2TAn4HJUuiRqBZ_IFbrEfhp5NuPOzoNF2DuT/s1600/1_tryant.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="820" data-original-width="615" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg31w6FCWtaHG-24eabHPlkk_4AoNiGwIxVibGdiluUD7N4MAW5CeljGVnEwNuFUVPGJaPaFfRVemBXwJa_0DqJRmRy4If-nxMKKEoakU2S2TAn4HJUuiRqBZ_IFbrEfhp5NuPOzoNF2DuT/s320/1_tryant.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Trystan with his daughter</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
That is not to blame him. The deceased cannot be blamed, as senior coroner Ian Arrow always sympathetically states at every inquest he presides over.<br />
<br />
During a series of witness statements a picture was drawn of Trystan’s last moments, the Herculean efforts made by fire crews to rescue him, the empathy offered by medical staff and the police officers at the scene.<br />
<br />
But it was the evidence of <a href="https://www.plymouthherald.co.uk/news/plymouth-news/paramedic-breaks-down-tears-recalls-2096180" target="_blank">David Kay, a paramedic with South Western Ambulance Services’ Hazardous Area Response Team (HART)</a> which was the most distressing to witness.<br />
A very experienced paramedic, working at the very sharpest end of the service for a number of years, he explained how he introduced himself by name to Trystan, trying to create a human bond.<br />
<br />
Yet just moments into his evidence, having recalled shaking Tristan's hand as he took him into his care, David – a robust, clearly very skilled and well-trained paramedic – broke down sobbing. The sobbing you get where it catches you unexpectedly, without warning, taking your breath away and leaving you gulping in air, shocked at your own emotional response.<br />
<br />
The coroner politely asked the inquest jury to retire and called for a short break. While the paramedic attempted to insist he was okay to continue, Mr Arrow gently overruled him, urging to sit amongst his colleagues. After a couple of minutes Mr Arrow gently ordered that the rest of the written statement the paramedic was reading out should be read by a coroner’s officer, again gently accepting and then overruling the paramedic’s insistence that he could continue.<br />
<br />
The jury listened intently as David explained how Trystan had fled from the ambulance, scaled three fences in quick succession and eventually threw himself from the Tamar bridge, despite the continuing efforts of the many emergency service personnel, including trained negotiators, who had stayed with him throughout the incident.<br />
<br />
At the conclusion of his evidence, Mr Arrow allowed the jury to leave, but as they filed out, the paramedic stood up and hesitated. He began to offer his apologies to Trystan’s family, who were sitting behind their lawyer.<br />
<br />
David’s words became choked and again he found himself unexpectedly sobbing as he tried to say “I’m so sorry for you”. He even began to apologise for being so upset, so distressed, apologising because he feared it should not be him that was upset, because they were the ones suffering the loss.<br />
<br />
Trystan’s brave family stood as one and, ignoring the bank of stern-faced lawyers in front of them, they walked around them, against all forms of inquest protocol, and together they embraced the sobbing paramedic, firmly reassuring him and thanking him for his efforts.<br />
<br />
I look down at my pad, writing what I was seeing. My eyes filled up, my throat went tight, and all I could think was “poor man, poor man”. I was thinking of the sobbing paramedic and of Trystan, so in pain that he found no other way forward.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEpEIGIGxStPh6Xx6dDteCuHQ0Vr0jru5Q8X_-FP7RGdCCsbwK3hdw5CAyVD8s95AhA2g3nPTNG_Hmx6Zi8YoTydvbv6KrorgU2CQxa7eQ3rbFXyq8jR7i4H0b9O5gIQ0yEQm1svPd-zZR/s1600/Mental+Health+Help.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="410" data-original-width="540" height="242" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEpEIGIGxStPh6Xx6dDteCuHQ0Vr0jru5Q8X_-FP7RGdCCsbwK3hdw5CAyVD8s95AhA2g3nPTNG_Hmx6Zi8YoTydvbv6KrorgU2CQxa7eQ3rbFXyq8jR7i4H0b9O5gIQ0yEQm1svPd-zZR/s320/Mental+Health+Help.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
As Trystan’s loved ones hugged a stranger who was sobbing at the death of a man he had never met before that night, it would be impossible to deny that suicide is about pain and it is a pain which is only ever shared, it is not ended.<br />
<br />
And now Plymouth Live reporter Charlotte Turner, who has shone as our health reporter and as a passionate voice on mental health, has launched our Reach Out campaign in the hope of raising awareness of men’s issues, urging them to get help if they need it.<br />
<br />
It has brought back memories of a friend I lost to suicide, many years ago, and reminds me yet again that suicide does not end the pain, it just shares it around.<br />
<br />
I knew Sean from our class in junior school. He was tall, angular, gawky, friendly, kind and funny, with dark, wild hair and a quick smile. If he was a Disney character he would’ve been Goofy, but with the heart and mind of Mickey. By the time we reached the local comprehensive, he was put in another tutor group, but was still a friend you’d say hello to and pass some time with.<br />
<br />
By the time I left school at 16 we’d lost touch but a couple of years later we reunited and a group of us would meet up every Friday at the local pub and sit, eat crisps, drink cheap beer and laugh. There was always a lot of laughing.<br />
<br />
By this time Sean was fully into the environment and he’d regale us with his tales of late night badger-watching at the local nature reserve. He hunted out rare Victorian bottles and had located a local Victorian rubbish dump where he found an array of incredible glass remains – old beer bottles, glass-ball stopper bottles, green hexagonal poison bottles. His black hair meant his chin sported a real beard while the rest of us were still dealing with bumfluff faces.<br />
<br />
And then Sean stopped coming to the pub. Phone calls asking him out were met with excuses. Then they were met with his mum having to make excuses on his behalf. She wanted him to meet with his friends, but you could tell she did not like acting as an intermediary saying he wasn’t coming out.<br />
<br />
Time passed and two of our group went off to university. Their summers were spent inter-railing. We occasionally met up at the pub when they were back. Sean would still rebuff attempts to get him to come along, like old times. We didn’t think any more of it. We weren’t aware of depression.<br />
<br />
Depression was something that happened to other people, in other places, not to us or our friends.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1vKFAuOBLzP-CNQv5-9XdsfG4JwdYVMPg7H9MLWPd78NK7ZsN5l5TJSu-0meg4zv3XA72hM0mQ3NSb714R_69KskKyVefuRX7aE-MJRv7ThHW_2cMO7TSftaWspt7FYXPTMjT_8uZ4CHn/s1600/Loneliness_%25284101974109%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1275" data-original-width="1600" height="255" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1vKFAuOBLzP-CNQv5-9XdsfG4JwdYVMPg7H9MLWPd78NK7ZsN5l5TJSu-0meg4zv3XA72hM0mQ3NSb714R_69KskKyVefuRX7aE-MJRv7ThHW_2cMO7TSftaWspt7FYXPTMjT_8uZ4CHn/s320/Loneliness_%25284101974109%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
I quit my job in London, applied for a degree at a remote Polytechnic and while waiting to start the course went off to work on a kids camp in America for a few months. I called home occasionally and late into the summer learned from my mum that Sean had been in touch. He had phoned my home – an incredibly rare event – and told her he wanted to get back into the fold. She said he’d revealed he’d been down but was better now and wanted to reconnect. I was overjoyed at the news. I looked forward to the homecoming and reunion.<br />
<br />
A couple of months later, back home, I met up with my two inter-railing friends at a cafe. We shared our tales of adventure and nearing the end I suddenly remembered my mum’s good news about Sean. Excitedly I said how Sean had phoned and was rejoining the pub gang.<br />
<br />
Stonefaced, they told me the desperately sad tale. He’d phoned their homes looking for them and had left the same uplifting message. Like me, they were away for a few months.<br />
<br />
Like me, they came home, expectant and hopeful.<br />
<br />
After making his fruitless phone calls to us Sean had written a letter to his mum, urging her not to be sad, saying that she didn’t need to worry about him any more. He’d written a will, bequeathing his bottle collection to one of my inter-railing friends who also collected the glass antiques. He also bequeathed a record he liked, Golden Brown by The Stranglers to one of our group. Sean had then gone out into his back garden and taken his life. I still can’t listen to that song without feeling a sense of loss and sadness.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKLXqHTzM-EAj2wRoCUnDI1h_3xBLlXDeWyXPRZiaN0Z-is4cYE4VlC7S7gA0oWhGAQ5Odnwnojwr-QMqMOnOQFbElempjB1C1F3waIR-LfNbbA8mrgqLiG42ZuWpEpC7ue3ABBZGJnF0k/s1600/D6bkP3zXoAAm6PU.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="734" data-original-width="1024" height="229" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKLXqHTzM-EAj2wRoCUnDI1h_3xBLlXDeWyXPRZiaN0Z-is4cYE4VlC7S7gA0oWhGAQ5Odnwnojwr-QMqMOnOQFbElempjB1C1F3waIR-LfNbbA8mrgqLiG42ZuWpEpC7ue3ABBZGJnF0k/s320/D6bkP3zXoAAm6PU.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Quote by Matt Haig from his book Reasons To Stay Alive</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
By the time we had all arrived back home to our dull little town in south Essex, Sean’s funeral had already taken place. He had believed that by ending his life, his mother’s suffering, her worries about her lovely, beautiful, funny, kind boy, would be over.<br />
<br />
We all played that “what if” game afterwards. What if I hadn’t gone to America? What if I had been at home when he called? What if the others hadn’t gone inter-railing? What if Sean had held on just a little bit longer, when we’d all made it back home and we could’ve all gone to the pub and talked about badgers and women and crisps and just laughed?<br />
<br />
What if we had realised sooner just how much pain Sean was in?<br />
<br />
I’m sure the emergency staff who attended the Tamar Bridge when Trystan stood on the wrong side of the railings have played the same awful game, asking what if they had done something different that night. I’m sure Trystan’s family, his wife, his friends have all asked what if, what if, what if. They’ve felt that awful pain of imagining what if, what if they had done something, then maybe the person they loved would still be here. That they could somehow help stop or ease that pain that living can cause.<br />
<br />
What if they could somehow make that person see that suicide is not the answer to their pain.<br />
<br />
Because suicide doesn’t end the pain, it just shares it around.<br />
<br />
So please, in any way you think you can, support our <a href="https://www.plymouthherald.co.uk/all-about/reach-out" target="_blank">Reach Out campaign</a> - talk, communicate, reach out, find a way through the pain. Share your love, your heart, your kindness, your consideration, your feelings, your laughter and your empathy.<br />
<br />
Don’t let suicide and the pain it causes be your legacy.</div>
Carl Evehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03930750600999601721noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1621615767238069849.post-57085619581688832582018-06-05T08:41:00.000-07:002018-06-05T08:41:31.245-07:00Short story on my birthday... <br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Been a while so I thought I'd post a story I wrote about four or five years back. I don't write stories as much as I used to but I was particularly proud of this one. Like all the best stories, it's partly based on real life. I'll leave it to you to work out which bits were real and which were just made up. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4aFNuIDgdBrP1aT9__imPPHtf9XW1Y9_xLfEOzuu6_gYE44lxLELXh_qKK8uTjUhwX_rldp7KKdA8wi1lgxO__-hPWzpFL-eAnRr_zZ__314k7L-ZS4jMtWqvsDrPrGb2Tf0fySnGyRKb/s1600/pissingguard.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><img border="0" data-original-height="660" data-original-width="704" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4aFNuIDgdBrP1aT9__imPPHtf9XW1Y9_xLfEOzuu6_gYE44lxLELXh_qKK8uTjUhwX_rldp7KKdA8wi1lgxO__-hPWzpFL-eAnRr_zZ__314k7L-ZS4jMtWqvsDrPrGb2Tf0fySnGyRKb/s320/pissingguard.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<h3>
<b><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">This Is Art</span></b></h3>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Clancy Berkshire was one of the most unfortunately named
people I have ever met. He was new to my senior school, arriving in the middle
of the fifth year. This was when the fifth year was the final year of “big”
school, where kiss chase had become much more serious and could end in unwanted
teenage pregnancy or genital warts.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Clancy and I quickly become friends during our respective
art classes. I was doing pottery with Mrs Heighington while Clancy was in the
adjoining class room, doing art with Miss Cubrillo.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Miss Cubrillo had a special place in the heart of every schoolboy
at our school thanks to her fashion for wearing the lowest of low-cut tops. This
in itself was not such a big deal. Mrs Bowers, the Home Ec teacher, wore low
cut tops during most the summer months, but then she was stick thin, bow legged
and in her late 60s. But Miss Cubrillo was none of these things. She was in her
mid 20s, shapely like an hourglass and the owner of the most magnificent
breasts to ever pass through the school gates in something other than a
training bra. They often appeared to have a life of their own and she would casually
rest them on her desk as she wrote reports, leaving her students to consider primary
colours and what they looked like in the flesh. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Now, you’d think she’d draw the jealous ire of the pretty girls
at school for upstaging them, but no, this never came about, primarily because she’d
regularly take not just the cool sporty cute girls for bi-weekly sessions of
hockey, but also the less-cool, less-cute, bookish ones. She would pass on her
knowledge and skills, amazing them all with her deft stick control and somewhat
mischievous tales of growing up in the Caribbean and the handsome young men she
had known there. The boys would look on from the demountable classrooms which
sat beside the sports field, with legs crossed and imaginations vivid.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Now personally, I always held a special fondness for Miss
Cubrillo, and not in any way because of her breasts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Okay, maybe just a little, but mainly it was
because of two very much unexpected and somewhat life-changing compliments she paid
me during a pottery lesson. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">She had sauntered in from her art class next door, as she
often did, and airily announced she was bored with her students and wanted to see
what we were up to. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Our class, taught by the wise and wonderful Mrs Heighington,
was a collection of slack-jawed, knuckle-dragging students who had failed to
get into any proper studious classes and were quietly dumped in the cul-de-sac
of pottery. And there was me, the Oliver Twist in a room full of Artful
Dodgers. I was the odd man out being classified as the boff who had strangely chosen
pottery over the more suitable academic subjects of chemistry, geography and
latin. We didn’t actually do latin at my comprehensive, but if we did, I
would’ve been expected to take it. I would’ve been expected to even get the
accent right. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">While outside the lesson, I was considered fair game for the
more predatory students, inside that room I was not teacher’s pet, I was King
Rat. I was the boy who “could”. I could work the kiln, I could create the slip
glue which put clay figures back together, I could throw a pot on the wheel and
make it rise and fall like a teenage boy’s member at the school disco during
the slow dance. A boy who could is in great demand in a class like that, ready
to help the other students at the drop of a hat with their ashtrays and coil
pots, guiding them through the tortuously artistic interpretations of ‘war’, ‘entropy’
and ‘desolation’. Yes, Mrs Heighington had been a true Sixties star-child and
as such was wonderfully bohemian in her approach to setting project titles. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Anyways, Miss Cubrillo had cast her gaze across the room
before she settled on my work. I was diligently engrossed in constructing a
full-size Samurai warrior helmet and facemask which I had researched and
designed myself during numerous lunch-breaks in the school library. Ah, the
school library - the holiest of sanctuaries for any discerning boff who liked
the finer things in life. Like not having their balls kicked in on the school
playing field each and every lunch-break. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">She sidled up to my workstation and I was alerted to her
presence when her breast casually bumped into my arm, startling me a tad. In
fairness, it probably startled more than just my tad. I was 15 and a half, remember.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">As I coughed and tried to regain my composure, she asked me
what I was going to do after school. While I very quickly reasoned this was not
an invitation to join her in her hand-painted 2CV for a romantic liaison, this
did not prevent a round of filthy giggles from my nearest classmates. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">As I put the finishing touches to the insignia at the front
of the helmet, which honours the Samurai’s master to whom he is beholden, I
told her I was probably going to work in a bank or some such unutterably boring
and safe environment which would please my parents hugely because it meant I
would be paying them most of my wages each month. She tutted and said, in sad,
almost pitying tones, that having seen my work over the past two years this would
be a great waste and I should instead be going to art college.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I was quite taken aback. I had never been so complimented at
school before. At any school before when I come to think of it. Scratch that –
I think I can safely say I’d not had any kind of compliment, anywhere, ever,
which had made me glow inside. But then, just as I was momentarily enjoying this
little button of warmth which was pulsating in my chest, she metaphorically hit
the hockey ball into the back of the net.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Miss Curbrillo turned to our pottery teacher who was on the
other side of the room, and loudly pronounced: “Mrs Heighington? I do so love Carl’s
helmet...”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Needless to say, there was a two second lag of silence
before the room effectively exploded. Matt Paulson had been drinking some water
at the time and two jets of it erupted from his nose as he snorted with
laughter. Anthony Lord guffawed so hard he fell off his stool and landed on his
back, cracking his head on the ground. Christopher Selfridge was so agog he
went to pick up a figurine which had been drying and, because he was looking at
Miss Cubrillo with his mouth open, instead grabbed a pot which had only just
come out of a kiln. He screamed, dropped the pot and ran for the sink to
immerse his fast blistering hand. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I’ll never know whether Miss Cubrillo’s gorgeous Caribbean
skin hid any kind of blush. But I do remember her turning back to me and
smiling warmly, as if she knew full well what she’d done. Dumbfounded, I
watched her sashay back to her own class, leaving me feeling more confident and
around 72 places higher on the official “cool at school” list. Gareth Stone,
who two years earlier had pinned me to a Home Ec cooker and grilled my back to
a crispy turn, looked at me with an element of awe and gasped: “Miss Cubrillo
love’s your helmet...Nice one Carl!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Mrs Heighington cocked an eyebrow at me from across the
room, so I just smiled the unexpected smile of the boy made legend and returned
to smoothing out my insignia, which is not a euphemism. But it’s true I was
very much thinking rude thoughts about Miss Cubrillo as I wistfully stroked the
clay of my helmet. That’s not a euphemism either. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Anyway, back to Clancy. His art project consisted of paying specially
chosen fifth-year schoolboys a small fortune to gurn with what they thought was
their most amusingly pained face to camera. Over a period of four weeks he shot
around seventeen rolls of 36 exposure 400ASA Kodachrome. What I found most intriguing
was that each mugshot-like still was of a boy who had mercilessly teased or
tormented him at some point since his arrival at the school. For the end of
year art exhibition, which was open to all pupils and parents, Clancy had
placed each image, grid-like, on an A2 posterboard, while a rotary slide
projector threw huge colour photographs of each boy onto a large white sheet at
one end of the main hall. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">However, he received a week-long detention after shocked parents
spotted how Clancy had placed additional slides into the projector which revealed
the true title of his work – which was not “Nobility Anointed” as he had
claimed, but “The Come-Faced Spunk-Muppets of the Fifth Year”. Not that most of
his victims really understood what a Come Face was back then. Admittedly, a
large number of them had had some kind of sexual exploit – usually with Daphne Fairfax
who eventually found fame as Weightwatchers’ biggest failure - but invariably
it was not a case of having a ‘come face’ as having a ‘shocked’ or more likely ‘startled’
face due to a not-entirely-unexpected premature ejaculation. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Shortly before we lost touch I learned Clancy was arrested
at art college after leading a one-man crusade to create “quantum art”. This
radical form of art mainly involved Clancy setting up an array of sophisticated
laboratory equipment, which for several months misled lecturers into thinking
they were cultivating the very essence of the Young British Artist. It was only
when a Misuse of Drugs Act warrant was executed by the local constabulary that they
realised Clancy was, in actual fact, cultivating the very essence of a methamphetamine
laboratory on the campus. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The last time I encountered the name of Clancy Berkshire was
from a local newspaper report about a Home Office investigation into a prison incident
in the Midlands. Clancy was doing a short stretch for fraud, having sold three
almost-perfect copies of Turner’s Ovid Banished From Rome to a Russian
oligarch. He had escaped execution and torture by the Oligarch’s henchmen
having already given them all completely-perfect copies of Banksy’s Urinating
Royal Guard. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">He had selflessly spent his time in prison educating the
other inmates to read and write, as well as giving art lessons. He had
encouraged free expression along with avant garde use of watercolours and oils.
The governor was so pleased with the results he allowed Clancy to create a
prison art department and order all manner of equipment, paints, brushes and
thinners. It was only after the authorities learned that Clancy had been using
the paints and cleaning solvents to create explosives that the art lessons were
postponed indefinitely. That and the fact that Clancy had left via a hole
created by the explosives, meaning there was no-one left to continue the supposedly
therapeutic art work. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The report ended with a line about Clancy’s current
whereabouts was currently unknown. An unnecessary repetition, if you ask me,
but that’s the standard of reporting these days. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Me? Well, I did end up working in a bank. But in my defence,
it was in the Caribbean where Miss Cubrillo taught me so much more than just
hockey… </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<br /><br />
<b>©Carl Eve 2012 </b>Carl Evehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03930750600999601721noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1621615767238069849.post-82019358645971631882018-01-23T07:58:00.002-08:002018-06-05T08:18:21.044-07:00The Coca Cola truck is in town. Shoot me now.<h3>
<br /><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">An 18-wheeler articulated lorry has brought festive cheer, because a reindeer-drawn sleigh just doesn't carry enough cans of fizzy</span></h3>
<br />
<h4>
<i>(This opinion column is copied here only because I know it'll be taken down eventually from the Plymouth Herald website)</i></h4>
<br />
The Coca Cola van is in town and I couldn’t be more appalled.<br />
<br />
“Oh, but it’s Christmas” I hear Plymothian’s cry, in between mouthfuls of Bacon Double Cheese Burgers from Generic American Takeaway and staring slack-jawed at Sky Sports 4 - The LDV Van Trophy Replays.<br />
<br />
Let’s be very clear. Coca Cola is not Christmas. It’s no more Christmas than being given a butt plug and a dirty raincoat from your across-the-road neighbour Alf who stares at you through his filthy net curtains while holding himself. Because yet again he picked you out for your street’s Secret Santa.<br />
<br />
It is carbonated water, with enough sugar in it to make a toddler scream “enough already, can I have some carrot sticks and celery please!’<br />
<br />
<img src="https://i2-prod.plymouthherald.co.uk/news/plymouth-news/article807759.ece/ALTERNATES/s615b/obesity-1.jpg" /><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">'Yes kids, you waddle over to the Coca Cola truck and meet Father Christmas while I sit here...'</span></i><br />
<br />
Do we celebrate each time South West Water find a fat-berg clogging up our sewers and claim it’s part of a Christmas tradition?<br />
<br />
Because for the last decade Coca Cola’s annual reports to the US Securities and Exchange Commission have listed obesity and its health consequences as the single greatest threat to the company profits.<br />
<br />
To counter that threat it has deployed intensive marketing – such as suggesting somehow A Coke is for Christmas – along with lobbying and pouring millions of dollars into fighting any campaign by government to tax or cap the size of sugary drinks.<br />
<br />
<img src="https://i2-prod.plymouthherald.co.uk/news/plymouth-news/article807761.ece/ALTERNATES/s615b/obesity-childrenJPG.jpg" /><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Childhood obesity - no, go on, have some more sugary drinks sweetie</span></i><br />
<br />
‘But the Coca Cola truck is Christmas Carl, you grouchy git’. Oh really. Really? On November 14, which happened to be World Diabetes Day, the Coca Cola truck was in Newcastle, the city where it sponsors Park Lives, which encourages more exercise.<br />
<br />
Now, whereas I consider that hitting the Irony Meter at full strength, you may think that’s noble. But it’s about as noble as Plymouth Half Marathon being sponsored by Capstan Full Strength cigarettes. Or the League Cup sponsored by Coca Cola... which they did.<br />
<br />
But, let's be clear - November 14 is not Christmas. So far it’s still a date when if we see lots of Christmas trees being put up in people’s homes we consider them a bit mad and too keen. At least wait until November 25, for God’s sake. We’re British after all.<br />
<br />
<img src="https://i2-prod.plymouthherald.co.uk/news/plymouth-news/article807833.ece/ALTERNATES/s615b/coca-cola-3.jpg" /><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Eggnog and Coke? Anyone?</i></span><br />
<br />
It’s the other small merchants I feel sorry for. There they are, paying out a fortune to the council in business rates or the City Centre Company for a ten by ten pitch in the Piazza in the hope that their Summer-house shed full of dog blankets and home-made wicker Santa Clauses will be eagerly visited by Christmas shoppers, when a ruddy great articulated truck, painted blood red with a dash of swervy white lines, like a drunk cocaine-snorting rock star, pulls up and plonks itself on their lawn.<br />
<br />
I think the police had the right idea a few years back. In 2011 an ‘unprecedented 1,000-plus’ people swarmed the lorry like hoards of hungry zombies keen to devour a former This Life actor who we now recognise was a stalker in Love Actually and not a romantic man with a pile of vomit-inducing placards.<br />
<br />
Shoppers, clamouring for photos of the truck – because in Plymouth they’ve clearly never seen a big red truck before – spilled into the busy Royal Parade, putting their lives at even more risk than drinking gallons of the sugary drink.<br />
<br />
<img src="https://i2-prod.plymouthherald.co.uk/news/plymouth-news/article807757.ece/ALTERNATES/s615b/coca-cola-1JPG.jpg" /><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>'So, that's Christmas is it?' 'No dear, it's a cheap marketing ploy used by a company which makes billions of dollars each year from selling a tar-coloured sugary drink which used to have cocaine in it...'</i></span><br />
<br />
I say risk, but it’s all comparative. Especially when you consider one in five children are overweight or obese when they start primary school and almost one in three by the time they leave primary school.<br />
<br />
Oh, and as for being dismembered by either zombies or by cars whizzing along Royal Parade while drivers gawp slack-jawed at the big red truck, keep in mind that 2014 was marked by a record high number of amputations – more than 8,500 – mostly due to type 2 diabetes, a condition closely linked with being overweight or obese and diets high in sugar can lead to being overweight or obese.<br />
<br />
Should I remind you that each can of Coke has around nine teaspoons of sugar, which the Royal College of Paediatrics and Child Health equates to the recommended daily allowance of sugar – for a full grown male adult?<br />
<br />
Frankly, if police started pepper-spraying the crowds around the Cola truck shouting ‘it’s for your own good, you’ll thank us one day’, I wouldn’t be complaining to Amnesty International.<br />
<br />
<br />
‘Oh, but it’s Christmas Carl, and the Coca Cola truck is very red, which makes it very Christmassy’. Oh FFS. Look – mince pies are Christmassy, but they don’t get more Christmassy if I pour tomato sauce over them? Additionally, I struggle to buy mince pies in the middle of June.<br />
<br />
It’s not like Lidl and Marks and Sparks are packed full of Christmas puddings shortly after the Easter holidays. And while I could possibly buy hot mulled wine, eggnog and spiced glühwein in September, the one thing I do know is that they’re not easily available from a decrepit soda machine dispensing the sugary black acidic 2p-coin cleaning gloop from the ever-so Christmassy venues such as a manky coach station located in the arse-end of every city in the world.<br />
<br />
‘Yes, but Carl, Santa will be on board. That’s how you know it’s Christmassy’. Oh for the love of…<br />
<br />
<img src="https://i2-prod.plymouthherald.co.uk/news/plymouth-news/article807836.ece/ALTERNATES/s615b/pepsi.jpg" /><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>'Honey, the Pepsi truck is here... does that mean it's Easter?'</i></span><br />
<br />
Look, would you get this excited if the Lilt truck or the Tango truck came to town with loud-hailers blaring out Noddy Holder’s dulcet tones as long as it had some minimum-wage-paid seasonal fat bloke wearing a beard and Lennon-glasses, plus some skimpily dressed elves who were chosen mainly because they once appeared on Babestation.<br />
<br />
You would, wouldn’t you? I despair.Carl Evehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03930750600999601721noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1621615767238069849.post-6593359792483468312016-05-16T12:53:00.001-07:002016-05-16T12:53:45.795-07:00Oh, blimey<br />
Okay - I need to get back in the saddle don't I.<br />
<br />
Will sort something from my addled brain soon. No really, it'll be my pleasure...Carl Evehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03930750600999601721noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1621615767238069849.post-26775512522229765612013-12-31T13:16:00.002-08:002013-12-31T13:20:44.831-08:00It's my own little world, where I get to do anything I want...<br />
An American friend has suggested I write more. All well and good, but time is short, getting shorter and my 3rd-hand laptop at home is older than my cat, does not have internet and has to sit on my lap because I don't have my own office.<br />
But she's right.<br />
So, in the spirit of the wilting of 2013 and the slow erection of 2014 - and yes, there's an obvious "ooeerr missus" in there - I will post two of my short stories that have come out of the magnificent <span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">Athenaeum</span> Writer's Group, of which I am but a very minor player... but will endeavour to attend more regularly in 2014.<br />
So I guess that's my New Year's Resolution sorted, whether I wanted to make one or not.<br />
I hope you enjoy...<br />
<br />
<br />
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: 'Britannic Bold', sans-serif; line-height: 130%;"><span style="font-size: large;">Holding
hands with an adult</span></span></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: 'Britannic Bold', sans-serif; line-height: 130%;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu__4WOEIaxoyxZ7WwjwHyDRSbWPhhq9kruT17uUocP_OYzH8afOd37z_L6oBjf3nCwAsFu-S5zUdi4OA5MbOB63uYR3y7d1U4EFJtslpUloKZyXd7lFc5SXbE5O8Sm_P2ItB3l07TvRVW/s1600/view.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="101" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu__4WOEIaxoyxZ7WwjwHyDRSbWPhhq9kruT17uUocP_OYzH8afOd37z_L6oBjf3nCwAsFu-S5zUdi4OA5MbOB63uYR3y7d1U4EFJtslpUloKZyXd7lFc5SXbE5O8Sm_P2ItB3l07TvRVW/s320/view.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: 'Britannic Bold', sans-serif; line-height: 130%;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0cm;">
“<span class="eBooknewSectionChar">I’M NOT GOING to get better, am I Dad..?”</span></div>
<div class="eBooknewSection">
<span class="eBooknewSectionChar">It wasn’t
just a question, like all the others Andy uttered. It was as much a statement
as anything. Andy was putting on his brave face, talking like us grown-ups were
supposed</span> to.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="eBookbody">
<span class="eBookbodyChar">I’d just pointed out an oil tanker
on the horizon, creeping up the Thames estuary, heading towards the Coryton
refinery, comparing them against the seemingly tiny cockleshell boats which
would commute back and forth from</span> nearby Old Leigh. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="eBookbody">
The cloud was hazy over the Isle of Sheppey and from the Chalkwell
Cliffs it appeared we were looking out to sea, rather than the eastern fringes
of London’s shabby river. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="eBookbody">
I felt that buzzing warmness around the back edges of my
eyes, the one that reminds a man his tears are always waiting for him if he
gives in. My tongue went dry and it felt fat and stupid, sticking to the roof
of my mouth. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="eBookbody">
‘I have to be strong. I have to be a Dad… I mean, I have to
be a <i>good</i> Dad’ I barracked myself silently. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="eBookbody">
A seagull screeched loudly a few feet from us, making me
start. I turned to look at Andy, not really ready to give the speech I’d
prepared weeks ago. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="eBookbody">
Like any copywriter, it was a speech I’d amended along the
way, adding fragile sombre words, taking out the gags, then putting them back
in again for my own sake rather than his, then changing it again, adding hope
but tempering it with realism, like the bereavement counsellors at the hospice
explained. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="eBookbody">
I’d never had to prepare an answer for Andy which was so
onerous, so important, as this. I think I was even proud of the one I’d drafted
by the end, certainly prouder than the one I’d given him when me and his mum
had split up. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="eBookbody">
But as I drew breath, dreading the darkening monologue I’d
rehearsed, Andy suddenly turned away, looking to the distance. His arm feebly
came up, pointing towards the horizon, a pitiful mirror of the Queen Victoria
statue a few yards away. He gave a forced, chipper exclamation as I turned to
squint into the distance. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="eBookbody">
“A clipper… isn’t that a clipper Dad, over there?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="eBookbody">
A handful of heartbeats tapped out the time it took for me
to understand that my answer was to go unspoken for now. I knew he’d changed
the subject on purpose, and he dropped his eyes suddenly to my hand holding his
on the arm of his wheelchair, as if to tell me, ‘I know – I changed the subject
Dad. I changed it because of this thing. This thing is just for me and I’m not
going to put you through it as well.’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="eBookbody">
His beautiful blue eyes looked up to mine and his trademark
lopsided smile burned across his face. Jesus, when did he get so damn smart?
And who the hell did he get that from, because it wasn’t me and it certainly
wasn’t his mum? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="eBookbody">
Again, the buzzing heat behind my eyes threatened me with my
shame and embarrassment and weakness. I drew in the cold air quickly through my
flared nostrils, the way soft men do to stop the tears taking over. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="eBookbody">
As I pushed him back along the Cliffs to the car the
questions flowed like a bubbling river over a fall. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="eBookbody">
“Who won the FA cup when I was born Dad? Did the pier burn
down four or five times? What’s the red dot on a seagull’s beak?” All the way
through town he kept it up, urging on my replies whenever I struggled. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="eBookbody">
“Why don’t you live with us anymore?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="eBookbody">
We had just pulled into the driveway of the hospice when he
bowled me that one.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="eBookbody">
As I got out of the car, came around to open his door and
pulled his wheelchair from the boot I rolled out the well-worn response as
recommended by the Idiot’s Guide to Divorce (parents’ edition). <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="eBookbody">
“You know why Andy. Your mum and I… well… we have different
lives now. Things don’t always work out for the best in a marriage. But what’s
important is that we both love you very, very much and that will never change. I
love you, we both do,” I assured him, noting with despair how easily I could
lift his feather-light body into the wheelchair. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="eBookbody">
“But why can’t you love each other anymore?” he demanded,
suddenly insistent. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="eBookbody">
I knelt by the side of his chair, flicking the numerous
clips and catches to make it more sturdy. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="eBookbody">
I sighed deeply, wondering the same, before muttering softly
“I don’t know why Andy. I wish I did.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="eBookbody">
Andy’s bird-like hand plopped on top of my head and he
ruffled my greying hair. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="eBookbody">
“Well, I’ll always love you… and that’ll never change,” he
laughed, knowing full well he was bouncing the approved statement back at me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="eBookbody">
“Ha ha, very funny” I replied sarcastically, standing up and
grabbing the handles of the chair. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="eBookbody">
“Ha ha very funny” he parroted, trying to drop his voice as
low as mine, causing us both to laugh out loud. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="eBookbody">
Later that night, after I’d helped him eat his dinner and
badgered him into swallowing what seemed like a sweet-packet of pills, I
stroked his hand while he fell asleep.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="eBookbody">
I drew my palm gently up his arm, passing the multitude of
bruises where different nurses had struggled to find a vein thick enough or
strong enough to take another needle.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="eBookbody">
The largest blood bruise was still there, marking the time
when the new student nurse had shaken with nerves as she jabbed with the
syringe. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="eBookbody">
The senior nurse had been at her back, and had tried to calm
her pupil with a hand placed softly on her shoulder. Andy’s cries had argued
the point and I could see the young woman become increasingly distressed at the
pain she knew she was causing. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="eBookbody">
She had become so het up, as Andy’s wails grew, she
eventually gulped down a sob and fled the room. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="eBookbody">
“She’s new…” said the senior nurse in explanation. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="eBookbody">
“You think?” hiccupped Andy, trying to laugh while gulping
down his own tears. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="eBookbody">
“A lot of them get into this because they want to help,” the
senior nurse, Gloria, told me later as we shared a cigarette in the hospice car
park. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="eBookbody">
“But sometimes the work here is just too much. They feel
guilty, embarrassed, angry with themselves after a while. They know they can’t
hack it, but it takes them several weeks to really accept the truth before they
finally leave. Others learn how to cope and they’re the ones that stay. Once
you learn to accept what goes on here, you stay for ever.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="eBookbody">
The blood-bruise had gone black, then blue and had slowly
faded to a large mottled yellow stain, like a smoker’s fingers. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="eBookbody">
Jules, the student nurse, had stayed the entire term of the
bruise and had learned to cope. She could now find a vein even better than
Gloria, despite the degeneration of Andy’s muscles and arteries.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="eBookbody">
It was my shift when Andy finally passed away and I was pleased
we were alone together. After months of treatment, his mum and I had agreed a
rota, some nights she would stay, and some nights me. We made sure Andy was
never alone as he went to sleep, that there was always one of us with him. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="eBookbody">
It wasn’t easy since the split, but at least it meant we
didn’t have to meet at Andy’s bedside and go through that awkward handover
greeting. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="eBookbody">
When I arrived I realised pretty quickly the day wasn’t
going to end well. I had a dark itch at my back all the way along the hospice
drive and the face of the receptionist telegraphed it all. I started to leave
an increasing number of phone messages and texts with Andy’s mum, but either
the restaurant she had gone to with her new partner was out of signal range or
she’d turned her bloody phone off again. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="eBookbody">
Gloria had given me a look which said “bugger calling,
you’re needed now”, so I stopped trying to do the right thing, and just did the
right thing. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="eBookbody">
I never saw the light leave Andy’s beautiful blue eyes,
because he’d closed them days before when he’d slipped into a coma.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="eBookbody">
I held his hand when his heart finally stopped beating,
feeling it grow colder and colder, until Gloria gently told me it was time to
let it go.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="eBookbody">
As expected, his mum had screamed at me for what seemed like
hours afterwards. Blaming me again and again that she should have been there,
not me. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="eBookbody">
I didn’t know what to say, how to make a sensible reply, so
I said nothing. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="eBookbody">
What do you say to a mother who’s missed her own son’s death
in lieu of a romantic but less-than-average pasta bake with a car-wash manager
called Brendan?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="eBookbody">
I didn’t go to Andy’s funeral. Well, Brendan suggested it
wasn’t a good idea if I attended as it would upset Andy’s mum and he didn’t
want to see her upset. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="eBookbody">
He did the whole Alpha male thing, using matey words, with
the hint of what he must have seriously thought was menace. The whole time he
was prattling on all I could think was he probably held his pressure-washer
lance on a people-carrier thinking he’s using a flamethrower in the Vietnam War.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="eBookbody">
I didn’t argue – I’d already decided there was no point in
going anyway. It wasn’t Andy in the expensive wooden box his mum had bought for
him. It wasn’t Andy, it was just what remained of Andy’s body. The one he’d
lived in. The one that had gone and turned on him, taking him apart bit by bit.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="eBookbody">
I haven’t gone back to work yet and though they’re being
nice about it, I think they know I probably won’t ever go back. Selling
advertising, copy-writing, it’s just selling false promises. Your life won’t be
better if you buy this, you won’t be a richer person, you will not live
longer. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="eBookbody">
I do still go up to the Cliffs and watch the boats saunter
along the estuary. I sit on a bench which bears Andy’s name on a small brass
plaque. When my hands begin to shake, I put them together in my lap and try to
fool myself I’m holding his hand again. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="eBookbody">
No-one asks me much in the way of questions anymore. But
it’s alright. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="eBookbody">
Andy taught me that some questions… well, some questions
just don’t have answers. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="eBookbody">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="eBooknewSection">
<i>©Carl Eve 2012 <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="eBooknewSection">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="eBooknewSection">
<i>interlude </i></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBP4TO2aLYS28W6GOEXQBMwZsTB8F4vpTecaTuim569wC3BV2bPBiiVJrFCfmIG_PnFQ5chdFJAssDJxT7XX16wSH8R5uK24gapnoxOXppcbkaP2hDjURIq4eL_W33q4GK1b3fBJ65jdTo/s1600/PB130044.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBP4TO2aLYS28W6GOEXQBMwZsTB8F4vpTecaTuim569wC3BV2bPBiiVJrFCfmIG_PnFQ5chdFJAssDJxT7XX16wSH8R5uK24gapnoxOXppcbkaP2hDjURIq4eL_W33q4GK1b3fBJ65jdTo/s320/PB130044.JPG" width="240" /></a></i></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<br />
<div class="eBooknewSection">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="eBooknewSection">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="eBooknewSection">
<span style="font-family: 'Britannic Bold', sans-serif; font-size: large; line-height: 20px;">Jam And Jerusalem</span></div>
<div class="eBooknewSection">
<span style="font-family: 'Britannic Bold', sans-serif; font-size: large; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiee5P0f86TA1M19TCuTeCEh4ERT6bLAOaQtQkbX-W28-9NBRNXnRP5zEP3MVamzx9Y-Z5SA5IvSAHaFFxNQCVEJskBPSnvv7uPce34LyocGdWgAFKrgQBHYapM8aKlKif6rAEy7zaOE0Qj/s1600/wi10a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="192" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiee5P0f86TA1M19TCuTeCEh4ERT6bLAOaQtQkbX-W28-9NBRNXnRP5zEP3MVamzx9Y-Z5SA5IvSAHaFFxNQCVEJskBPSnvv7uPce34LyocGdWgAFKrgQBHYapM8aKlKif6rAEy7zaOE0Qj/s320/wi10a.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="eBooknewSection">
<br /></div>
<div class="eBooknewSection">
“TO THE LEFT a
little please Margaret, closer to the delphiniums, lovely, Jeremy dear that
needs to go over the other side, in between the two Greek columns, that's
right, oh Daphne those are magnificent cushion covers, but we can’t have them
in this marquee, people will think they’re cruising Marks and Spencers, oh for
pity’s sake Gerald, I said straight-back chairs, not those, this is Bramley
House, not a housing estate...”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="eBookbody">
The shrill voice of Morag Mulwhinny rang out inside the
crisp white marquee, which was festooned with colourful bunting, assuming you
approved of the colours being only red, white and blue, which Morag certainly
did. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="eBookbody">
She wiped her hands twice on her sensible tweed skirt and
briefly hummed a particularly favourite Scottish reel to herself which she
found as calming as a saucer of camomile tea. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="eBookbody">
Morag was proud of her Scottish heritage. Certainly proud
enough to have retained her cut glass BBC accent which even Lord Reith would
have approved of. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="eBookbody">
She caught sight of an impressive-looking fruit cake on an
ivory stand and absent-mindedly straightened it so the clock-piece almonds
around the edge did not appear askew. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="eBookbody">
She then noticed the elegantly written card attached to it
and carefully returned the cake to its former askew position.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="eBookbody">
“Admiring my cake Morag?” said a tiny but true Scots voice
beside her. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="eBookbody">
“Ah Hettie... yes, a fine cake,” said Morag. She had used
the word ‘fine’ in the way people use ‘interesting’ when they are unsure of
what they’re seeing. The way some parents would use ‘lovely’ when their child
brings home a painting from nursery which looks like a walrus eating a
Volkswagen Beetle or vice versa but your child insists is actually you. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="eBookbody">
“Perhaps a few too many almonds for my liking Hettie, but I
think it’s a rather fine effort on your part. You know, I do think there’s
every chance you could get a bronze this year, although Cynthia’s Victoria
sponge has some admirers.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="eBookbody">
Morag smiled sweetly at Hettie who was beginning to frown
slightly at the sponge cake beside hers. It was adorned with a dusting of icing
sugar which clearly displayed a silhouette of Queen Victoria. Cynthia's recent
run of OCD meant she’d probably been up all night placing each individual speck
using surgical tweezers and a magnifying glass borrowed from her husband’s
surgery. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="eBookbody">
Morag’s petrified hair seemed to crackle as she looked up
and walked with exaggerated urgency towards the marquee’s open tent flaps, her
arms raised in melodramatic alarm.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="eBookbody">
“Emmett darling, you’ll need to put that trestle table out
the front, there’s simply not enough room in here for any more asparagus and
artichoke displays. And could you tell...” she swallowed hard “Sahara… that she
really needs to get a move on. Those dahlias she’s preparing are liable to wilt
in this heat, and heaven knows what will become of Glenda’s display of red hot
pokers. She knows full well Major Hegarty has a tendency to become somewhat
cantankerous if he has to judge wilted torch lilies.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="eBookbody">
Morag eyes swivelled and narrowed as she spied suspicious
and furtive movements at one of the tables. A voice like cheesewire sliced
through the hubbub and ensured all eyes headed towards the subject of Morag’s
displeasure. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="eBookbody">
“Gerald? I’ve told you before – no macaroons. You know they
give you indigestion and Dr Parsival quite clearly stated they were as
beneficial to your gall bladder as the Zulus were to the garrison at Rourke’s
Drift."<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="eBookbody">
A balding, red-faced man gingerly placed a solitary macaroon
back onto a rose printed plate, which stood in line with several other
similarly rose printed plates on the white cotton tablecloth.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="eBookbody">
The hubbub returned, embarrassed, as the many continued the
work of the few. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="eBookbody">
An olive-skinned woman sporting a khaki baseball cap, a
denim shirt and a long white cotton Gypsy-style skirt strode into the tent. She
waved happily at a couple of the young girls hoisting bunting around the
marquee as she approached Morag. With one hand she whipped off the cap and she
shook out her long dark hair which had unconcerned strands of grey. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="eBookbody">
“Morag, I knew I’d find you here in the comp tent. How’s it
going? Everything according to plan? It’s frightfully hot don’t you think? Have
you had a drink? You’ve been hard at work for ages. You’re starting to look a
little flushed you know.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="eBookbody">
Morag radiated tireless determination as she gently tended
her lacquered hair with the palm of her right hand. She felt the bead of sweat
run down the side of her face, but ignored it testily. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="eBookbody">
“Thank you Georgina, that’s very kind of you, but I can
assure you, a childhood in Kandahar, two years in Singapore and three more
years as a Japanese P.O.W has left me immune to British summers. I take it
you’re taking a break from the holy tent to see how we’re getting along.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="eBookbody">
The two were now standing side by side, surveying the cakes,
vegetables, flowers and fruits on glorious display on tables the length and
breadth of the marquee. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="eBookbody">
“Holistic tent Morag, although we decided to rename it the ‘Chill
Zone’ at our last meeting – didn’t I send you an e-mail?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="eBookbody">
Georgina missed Morag’s brief wince at the technological
term as she began to look around the marquee full of busy workers. “I must say
Morag, this looks very... traditional,” she said with a genuine smile. “It
really does look every inch the British summer fete – your lot have done a
fantastic job.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="eBookbody">
“Well, one does what one can.” Morag’s palm returned to
primp the coiffured hair. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="eBookbody">
“Hmm, anyway, we finished a while ago and I thought I'd
offer to give you a hand – do my bit for the sisters in Piggot’s Bottom as it
were. The massage table’s up and running, the yoga mats are down, the Bedouin
corner looks very cool and the hammocks are out the front. We’ve got whale song
and Tibetan monk chants rigged up on the speakers and the organic muesli and
yogurt drinks are going like hot cakes. Speaking of which, when's the judging?
I'm keen to know how my hash brownies did....”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="eBookbody">
Georgina caught Morag’s sudden raised eyebrows and grinned.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="eBookbody">
“Only joking Morag, couldn't resist after that kerfuffle
over the speaker I got in from the hemp collective. I actually did mean my
carrot cake. I’m looking for a commended this year with some luck, although the
competition does look pretty intense.” Georgina cast a questioning gaze over at
the cake table which appeared to strain under the weight of this year’s
efforts. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="eBookbody">
“Well, don’t count your organic chickens,” replied Morag
sarcastically. “You’ve got some very stiff competition from Mrs Wetherby’s
beetroot brownies. What’s so funny?” she asked as Georgina's hand raced to her
mouth to stifle childish giggles. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="eBookbody">
“Nothing Morag, I’m sure Mrs Wetherby’s beetroot brownies
will be looked upon with great admiration, as they are every year. Is her
husband judging again this year?” she asked sweetly.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="eBookbody">
Morag took a sharp, deep and indignant breath which was
followed by a long stare and a haughty reply.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="eBookbody">
“Colonel Wetherby is a much respected judge and has been for
the past thirty years at each of Piggot’s Bottom Women’s Institute fayres and
I’ll brook no insinuation that he is biased in any way. It just so happens that
Mrs Wetherby is an exemplary baker and I would remind you and your ladies,”
she stressed this word with suspicion “in the Greater Nedging WI that if they
wish to compete they should ‘up their game’ to use one of your modern
phrases...”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="eBookbody">
Georgina dropped her right hip and placed her right hand on
it, turning to Morag with an arched eyebrow. She sucked on her dazzling white
teeth, baring them as she abruptly shook her head. “Oh, we’re not going down
this road again Morag – you’ve got your ways and we’ve got ours and that’s
that. I respect what you do and the way that you do it, and I would suggest you
do the same. But at the end of the day
Morag, if the WI is going to survive the next century and get new members it
will have to stop living so stubbornly in the last one.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="eBookbody">
Morag drew herself up and puffed out her chest, her hands
clasped in front of her in the stance known by servants and put-upon clerks the
world over. She positively radiated indignant zeal.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="eBookbody">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhko1hzYeXQ-GnEi7Kuonk-wPHzgW9tIF8ppdsbv-Mcu6d6KbGIre-dvK7v6VVDpu7Kq5s9YVn5QNcZ42e_lqzjObZImcho55WiYIj9X4576Fug_3AluObknGlr294gb7bKnq-gei9l2R81/s1600/war-time-food-demo-72px.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhko1hzYeXQ-GnEi7Kuonk-wPHzgW9tIF8ppdsbv-Mcu6d6KbGIre-dvK7v6VVDpu7Kq5s9YVn5QNcZ42e_lqzjObZImcho55WiYIj9X4576Fug_3AluObknGlr294gb7bKnq-gei9l2R81/s320/war-time-food-demo-72px.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="eBookbody">
<br /></div>
<div class="eBookbody">
“It may be old fashioned and twee to you johnny come
latelies Georgina, but the Piggot’s Bottom WI has a fine tradition of flower
arranging, cake making and vegetable growing competitions. Marjorie
Twistleton-Ffiennes even won the national award in 1975 for her
Beefeater-shaped ginger biscuits and I hardly need remind you of Daphne
Fairfax's outstanding plums which made the front cover of the WI’s Life
magazine last year...”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="eBookbody">
She completely ignored Georgina’s smirk and ploughed on like
a Crusader in the Holy Land. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="eBookbody">
“...Like it or not, some of us still hold firm to the concept
of Jam and Jerusalem. We're not all into Hamas and Hezbollah.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="eBookbody">
“Humous,” answered Georgina, smiling indulgently.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="eBookbody">
“Pardon?” quizzed Morag. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="eBookbody">
“Humous. Not Hamas. Hamas are a political movement in
Palestine considered by Israel and some in the West to be a terrorist
organisation. Humus is a dip derived from chick-peas. Although I can see how
you could confuse the two. You really should come along to some of our meetings
Morag, there’s lots more things to learn about the world.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="eBookbody">
Morag kept her indignant stance, but softened as she assured
herself she had made her point and won the argument. She never wanted it to be
said she wasn’t gracious in victory.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="eBookbody">
“That's most kind Georgina, but all I need to know about the
world is here, in this marquee.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="eBookbody">
Georgina sighed and unexpectedly reached forward with both
her hands to clasp Morag’s. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="eBookbody">
“I thought as much. Look, if you need some Reiki or a
shiatsu massage, pop on over to our tent – you can have one on the house – I think you
need it.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="eBookbody">
With kind and smiling eyes, Georgina gave Morag’s hands a
little squeeze before turning away and walking out of the marquee, twisting up
her long dark hair and placing her baseball cap back onto her head. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="eBookbody">
Morag blinked twice and the corner of her mouth twitched.
The shock of the unexpectedly tactile and sympathetic offer had taken her quite
by surprise and she took a second or two to regain her composure. She watched
the receding sway of Georgina’s hips and the swish of her gypsy skirt. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="eBookbody">
“Shiatsu...” tutted Morag. “The day I let another Japanese
get his fiendish hands on my body...” she muttered to herself. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="eBooknewSection">
</div>
<div class="eBookbody">
The idea dropped from her mind like cracked eggs into a bowl
of flour as she espied a guilty-looking Gerald slinking over towards the
macaroons again. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="eBookbody">
<br /></div>
<div class="eBookbody">
<i>©Carl Eve 2012</i></div>
Carl Evehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03930750600999601721noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1621615767238069849.post-40661515500196084412013-12-12T14:46:00.000-08:002013-12-13T11:12:01.751-08:00Only a ginger can call another ginger ginger<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Words have power. Oh they do. I read it somewhere. Well,
certainly in between reading a lot of other waffle and, frankly, utter fartwittery,
over the past week or two. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You may have noticed that a) a prominent sports star
revealed they were attracted to boys. No, not Jessica Ennis. <a href="http://www.plymouthherald.co.uk/proud-Plymouth-s-Tom-Daley/story-20252892-detail/story.html">Tom</a>.
Woo Yay. Saw the vid and was pleased for him and thought “that took guts mate,
and not just the kind of guts that sees you jump 10 metres up, backwards,
spinning through the air – that’s pish easy by comparison – so good for you.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Around that time I also set my stopwatch and started
thinking about laying profitable bets on the backlash because, let’s face it,
you know me – I’m not local. I don’t have a lot of faith in the six-fingered
Plymouth posse and guessed that the 17th century mind-set of most of the city-that-civilisation-forgot was going to get their crayons out and start stringing
monosyllabic words together to inform the echo-chamber that they was right sick
of them gays and fed up with having them gays rammed down their throats and why
didn’t heterosexuals get a “march” like the homosexuals and, frankly, it’s vile
because if all men turned to men there would be no more babies, so it’s
un-natural and against God and he will burn in the fiery pits of Hell, or Hull,
whichever has the better culture these days. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Alongside them I was betting I would be educated by
literally web-fingered know-it-all pseudo-citizen journalists who were going to
remind me that this wasn’t real news and why was we, as a little Plymouth
newspaper, hounding the Plymouth boy by writing about his YouTube revelation
which was being retweeted by his million-strong followers, shown on national
and international TV, radio, newspapers and sent via the science of
telecommunications into outer space. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And then I bet on the chances that both of these groups
would write in, some actually using paper but most just sending in their
missives via the wonder of the email and internet, which fortunately for them,
allows people to write any old tadgers under the cover of complete anonymity.
Yes, I bet they would write in accusing the paper of a) being disgusting for
printing Tom’s words, b) being disgusting for printing letters from people who
were disgusted at us printing Tom’s words, c) disgusted at the disgusting
supportive letters who were disgusted at the disgusting letter writer who was
disgusted at the paper for printing Tom’s disgusting words d) eventually it
gets so meta, you find you just see a big ball-bag of everyone being “disgusted
from Tunbridge Wells” and realise that you’re not remotely bothered anymore. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmyDPsmWT5Zj2O1aaolLXSFhmuVQmhOkkUcf4iWuOPxBB4HAWf0IEB-8V80QUYFPsLjMesFcvNVs2VVCwefnXbT0glsWWpgg7wtDRtbPKtRwzOzMJJOUqkCf1StJEpdprxswGcDzZq8pfl/s1600/writing-monkey.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmyDPsmWT5Zj2O1aaolLXSFhmuVQmhOkkUcf4iWuOPxBB4HAWf0IEB-8V80QUYFPsLjMesFcvNVs2VVCwefnXbT0glsWWpgg7wtDRtbPKtRwzOzMJJOUqkCf1StJEpdprxswGcDzZq8pfl/s320/writing-monkey.jpg" height="211" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of our more erudite and charming letter writers...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Except that I am. It was inferred that I and my workmates
were either cheerleaders for bigotry or, worse, the bigots. Particularly from
people who should know better. From people who for a number of years refused to
speak to me about promoting LGBT issues in this city because, hey, I was a
reporter on the local paper and thus couldn’t be trusted not to have the mind-set
of Alf Garnett. When I pointed out that I wasn’t from “round here” and thus
enjoyed the renaissance, the echoes of the 60s, the decent political
correctness of the 80s and a more cosmopolitan outlook on the world, having
worked for about a decade in London and living just down the road from it for
more than three decades, but it fell on deaf ears. It must’ve been the Alf
Garnett accent.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I mean, I know it’s cruel and harsh and very unfair of me to
suggest it, but, well… you are a bit backward down here, aren’t you? It’s not
entirely your fault, I know. You’re a little island, surrounded by grass and
water, moors and channel. The next city of comparable size heading west is
probably <st1:state w:st="on">New York</st1:state>
and it’s 50 miles east to the middle-class accents in <st1:city w:st="on">Exeter</st1:city>. It probably wasn’t until 1976 that
you saw your first hippy. You probably ate him. As for the 1980s, I’m sure you
were convinced Boy George was a girl until he chained that bloke to a radiator.
And you probably liked <a href="https://www.stonewall.org.uk/at_school/what_the_law_says/8800.asp">Clause
28</a> which banned the ‘promotion’ of homosexuality in schools as a “normal
family relationship”. Because saying it’s okay for people to be gay, or
lesbian, or whatever, is clearly more evil than the evilist thing we can
imagine. You do wonder though why all that energy went into drawing up that bit
of legislation when, perhaps, oh, I don’t know, people in the late 1980s should
have thought more about whether it was appropriate to invite a DJ with a
penchant for molesting children to <a href="http://news.sky.com/story/1116790/thatcher-pushed-for-jimmy-savile-knighthood">Chequers
on a regular basis</a>. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My mum brokered reality for me when I heard her say to my
dad, who had made some disparaging remark about “poofs” a short while after laughing
along with John Inman and Larry Grayson – so this’d be late 70s. Her
surprisingly forcefully delivered line, considering it could easily warrant a
slap or punch later the same night, was “Who cares if a man loves another man?
There’s not enough love in this world and if two men love each other, then it’s
more love in the world and that’s a good thing. I’d rather have two men loving each other than them going out and beating up some old woman…” You can’t argue
with that, can you? So I didn’t. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJyNvUlisTagmuW6_pQ3BHoyq55LDfDJbvQwOTX9PCogsluaGX8Rxbrqm_ZlPo80srTtBoYuqAEVzBVWPddCoRt1s0vAhKL0q8gTKzyTbJ-p2UO6J3sS0nDLGJjgDuJG_UGjD19ekxdjd1/s1600/Well,+it's+better+than+them+going+out+and+beating+up+some+old+women....jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJyNvUlisTagmuW6_pQ3BHoyq55LDfDJbvQwOTX9PCogsluaGX8Rxbrqm_ZlPo80srTtBoYuqAEVzBVWPddCoRt1s0vAhKL0q8gTKzyTbJ-p2UO6J3sS0nDLGJjgDuJG_UGjD19ekxdjd1/s320/Well,+it's+better+than+them+going+out+and+beating+up+some+old+women....jpg" height="160" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Well, it's better than them going out and beating up some old woman..." said Mum</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When my best friend came out to me in our late teens I
wasn’t exactly surprised. I was surprised at how well I handled it. Then I
wasn’t surprised at how my initially mature response fell by the wayside and
for a while I really couldn’t handle it. And a few years later, I found I
could. So I asked his forgiveness for being an utter, immature, pratt. To his
credit, he did and it was nice to finally rejoin the grown-up world again. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He was, and is, gay. And it’s a word I learned meant “I love
him”. It did also mean “him, over there… <b>he’s</b>
fit. <b>You</b> Carl, are a minger so don’t
flatter yourself that I’d ever be remotely interested in your straight but
flabby, unattractive backside.” Saying that – it (the aforementioned backside
of mine) did get pinched a bit while it was sashaying through a Priscilla-type
bar in Sydney, Australia in teh mid 1990s, so, it can’t be that unattractive. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5_CgjIsj-E4rSRVsfr8m4STE665b6_FDP9zmzX_uU4XbjnyCFILdqW-Wh9R47ZEFOH0WbkcnDlVRP9aep4H9ThaZG_xGza65dytCnmYcmS3xOfgcqmvPP4zk1TbHwYjbheq-_ECpTQYSW/s1600/The+Imperial+Hotel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5_CgjIsj-E4rSRVsfr8m4STE665b6_FDP9zmzX_uU4XbjnyCFILdqW-Wh9R47ZEFOH0WbkcnDlVRP9aep4H9ThaZG_xGza65dytCnmYcmS3xOfgcqmvPP4zk1TbHwYjbheq-_ECpTQYSW/s320/The+Imperial+Hotel.jpg" height="214" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Well, someone here didn't find me unattractive, so there... </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I liked the Political Correctness of the 1980s because it
recognised that words had power. They could be used to create solidarity, and
to divide. They could be reclaimed, fought over, reinterpreted. We searched for
mutually acceptable words to describe each other so that we didn’t cause harm or hurt.
Some will say it went too far, but the aim was good – it was to create a more
inclusive, equal and fair world. Women could be bosses – they could be
“chairwomen”. By giving them a name for that role, they could be more readily
accepted as being able to perform that role. Now, a woman can be chairman of a board. We no
longer think of it as a male role. It’s a person’s role. People weren’t
“cripples”, they were <a href="http://odi.dwp.gov.uk/inclusive-communications/representation/language.php">disabled
people</a>. And Gay went from “happy” to “I love him”, which I guess, in a way,
is still happy.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://www.cambridge-news.co.uk/News/Campaigners-plea-for-end-to-homophobic-language-and-bullying-in-Cambridgeshire-schools-20131120061144.htm">Sadly,
this current generation doesn’t seem to agree</a>. Gay now means rubbish, useless,
wimpy, crap. Thanks to moron DJs like Chris Moyles, <a href="http://www.theguardian.com/media/2006/jun/07/bbc.gayrights" target="_blank">who repeatedly promoted thestreet slang word as a negative</a>, it is <a href="http://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2013/nov/24/using-gay-mean-crap-bullying-gap-people">bandied
around playgrounds to disparage, bully, put down</a>. Teenage boys who are
learning that maybe they love “him” instead of “her” now face being considered rubbish,
wimpy, crap. It’s a 21<sup>st</sup> century version of Witch-hunting. Find
someone, point at them, call them gay. If they aren’t gay (useless), then the continued "you're rubbish" vilification will see them sink. If they really are “gay” (I love him) as well,
then the vilification will see them float and then burn. So, we have teenage
boys who are and are <a href="http://www.pinknews.co.uk/2011/03/30/schoolboy-15-jumped-to-his-death-after-rumours-he-was-gay/">not</a>
gay, <a href="http://www.heart.co.uk/essex/news/local/colchester-inquest-schoolboys-death/">killing</a>
themselves, because bullies have made their lives hell by calling them gay.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And when I think of what my friend went through, how he
tolerated my stupidity, and endured the Government’s stupidity, and the
public’s stupidity, it makes me angry enough to give my eldest and middle son a
right bollocking when I caught them saying something or someone was “gay”
(to them, meaning rubbish/useless). I told them of the legends of music and acting and
literature and science who were Gay, of my mum – their grandmother’s – brave
solidarity with the concept of being Gay (whom you love) and of my oldest
friend who forgave me my stupidity and is a really top bloke, though a bit
grouchy at times if he hasn’t had his coffee. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-1O4i20FpCoiPqzJAT4IFHd7lz43zrN-uv1EYafswyoVZq2NkvzwAVKmdeMB2_PSjUzc-jz8Sfi_T880Vp0cKF3JXjH1e2nVFeiCYbi0RZ9blPHdPkKt1lzzCJCnNke8zpSgEitL9NBaz/s1600/Coffee+addict.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-1O4i20FpCoiPqzJAT4IFHd7lz43zrN-uv1EYafswyoVZq2NkvzwAVKmdeMB2_PSjUzc-jz8Sfi_T880Vp0cKF3JXjH1e2nVFeiCYbi0RZ9blPHdPkKt1lzzCJCnNke8zpSgEitL9NBaz/s320/Coffee+addict.jpg" height="218" width="320" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So they don’t use the word in our house, and, I bloody hope,
they’ve learned not to use it outside it either. Because if anything is
rubbish, being Gay is not it. And I’m pretty happy with that. And I’d really,
really like you all to be happy with that too. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
I’ll leave you with this thought. Being Gay is like <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KVN_0qvuhhw&list=RDKiEUkYCuvuM" target="_blank">Being Ginger</a>. They just are. Now get over it.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-lfFXak3bYOKLTz4qrjzSl713eRJczFsSAB7qQwVYfwIuk6mqwgrHpbOhSU7OgmriBLXvnmadzhSrv3T3PhTzEpi9_YN5O0JHjnReoaQiBWQTIf44P3rrhh29KIAlu6PQ7i1kfec4D0zA/s1600/Sir+Ian+McKellen.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-lfFXak3bYOKLTz4qrjzSl713eRJczFsSAB7qQwVYfwIuk6mqwgrHpbOhSU7OgmriBLXvnmadzhSrv3T3PhTzEpi9_YN5O0JHjnReoaQiBWQTIf44P3rrhh29KIAlu6PQ7i1kfec4D0zA/s320/Sir+Ian+McKellen.jpg" height="320" width="215" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
Carl Evehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03930750600999601721noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1621615767238069849.post-64436282626430688462013-04-02T16:05:00.000-07:002013-04-02T16:05:51.118-07:00Hello, is there anybody in there, is there anybody home... <br />
It's been a while, I know, but stuff happens. <br />
<br />
There's been a lot going on. Things were fraught over the summer at work as we were down a few people and those of us who remained were kept rather busy. But things have settled down, we're up to almost full strength and work is keeping me busy. <br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNjrKwapBBFEqdB2WU45hnJoDR9CAP2m076fJpNcoEI8lGa-AxCi-8xP7FIEjN3APV5fE1LEMH-cp-BFn8vtg_280qSW6RDJxZuhI2H0ZJYouRbsITTEz0OCg1eqNnQMkeJazplqo5_z6h/s1600/day1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" mta="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNjrKwapBBFEqdB2WU45hnJoDR9CAP2m076fJpNcoEI8lGa-AxCi-8xP7FIEjN3APV5fE1LEMH-cp-BFn8vtg_280qSW6RDJxZuhI2H0ZJYouRbsITTEz0OCg1eqNnQMkeJazplqo5_z6h/s320/day1.jpg" width="250" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdsOQWoKl-1dvr0LvqtbWBUH1wHIhA5rUY5X4pi0zg7VLy6in2ecCEQNiIpRALHepnGIUE9ucKVE3Wr8zFLaKtFO0JMWwlprHK2kJTj3kPjjhTob1WtCuQZb3W9EW0Il4spcA2itpBLsaJ/s1600/day2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" mta="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdsOQWoKl-1dvr0LvqtbWBUH1wHIhA5rUY5X4pi0zg7VLy6in2ecCEQNiIpRALHepnGIUE9ucKVE3Wr8zFLaKtFO0JMWwlprHK2kJTj3kPjjhTob1WtCuQZb3W9EW0Il4spcA2itpBLsaJ/s320/day2.jpg" width="250" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhceAajcdsMaPd_m9iLa3hdwJPxqUNlg_uPlXGk9b0Nz5Zhkrm4950ZsTUbrsm0Fs_lWpOWzr87SBfXSMw9-VDrEESx5IAfhMKrvOaVodNesRYrBaKZ6d02nYIP7OIVz8ex2M5DFEXotF_O/s1600/day3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" mta="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhceAajcdsMaPd_m9iLa3hdwJPxqUNlg_uPlXGk9b0Nz5Zhkrm4950ZsTUbrsm0Fs_lWpOWzr87SBfXSMw9-VDrEESx5IAfhMKrvOaVodNesRYrBaKZ6d02nYIP7OIVz8ex2M5DFEXotF_O/s320/day3.jpg" width="250" /></a></div>
<br />
Leveson. Ye Gods but it's causing trouble. The predicted trouble is not Leveson and his recommendations. That, I can handle. And to be honest, I agree with much of what he wrote, if not all of it. He was particularly insightful and kind towards us local <a href="http://www.thisiscornwall.co.uk/Lord-Justice-Leveson-praises-regional-papers/story-17466244-detail/story.html#axzz2PLYjSTvK" target="_blank">newspapers</a><br />
<br />
But, as predicted - at least by those of us in the newspaper world who didn't hack phones, didn't blag medical records, didn't bribe coppers or DVLA staff and didn't lie about not doing it afterwards - the backlash has begun. <br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG3mncMIbGTnZ9FMlR6yD5RejfDa5iLHrNWt1dyRKfksXhhZBMbzl_HKdfheiroFgmmbdqs67EmU6SJQxyQrqfLkTL-YZd5QyTM6IDV6mVaY_lXY4gw3dPlqPI8XBBcfroMHl9FP3IL8Ma/s1600/430371_3395889176466_1246816238_4152001_902432976_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="225" mta="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG3mncMIbGTnZ9FMlR6yD5RejfDa5iLHrNWt1dyRKfksXhhZBMbzl_HKdfheiroFgmmbdqs67EmU6SJQxyQrqfLkTL-YZd5QyTM6IDV6mVaY_lXY4gw3dPlqPI8XBBcfroMHl9FP3IL8Ma/s320/430371_3395889176466_1246816238_4152001_902432976_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
I remember a reporter friend at my previous paper who was told to go down to the queueing mourners at the civic centre who were all ready to sign a book of condolences for Princess Diana following her death in a horrifying car crash in Paris. Hundreds of people were in the queue and the reporter was tasked with getting a few comments from a handful of them, explaining why they were there, how they felt, why signing the book was a way of offering their sympathy for those left behind. However, very quickly what he got was criticism, and then outright abuse. <br />
<br />
"Why are you here? It's your lot that killer her. You lot killed her you bastards... You scum!"<br />
<br />
Yes - a 25-year-old ginger-haired reporter from Southend who liked doing stories about house music had apparently been the cause of a Royal death in another country. Or at least someone very much like him...<br />
<br />
Obviously, trying to point out the difference between a local scribe and French paparazzi was a mute point. I mean, they're all the same, aren't they? All the same. All vermin. Like those on benefits, eh? All skiving scum. <br />
<br />
Except that one doesn't represent all. It's a hard concept to have to accept. It means having a few calm thoughts, recognising the difference between good and bad, right and wrong, and having the conscience to not take the easy "you're all the fecking same" and accept that one's opinions could do with being tweaked a little. <br />
<br />
So, as I said, the backlash has begun, again. Already in my role I'm having a few problems with officers who think I have horns, a curly tail and cloven hooves. That I will taunt them and call to them with my siren song, tempting them onto the rocks of corruption with a well stuffed brown envelope and the promise of a well paid column after their retirement (possibly their enforced "A19" retirement). <br />
<br />
I know... mental, eh?<br />
<br />
I have bribed cops you know. Oh yes. A cup of tea at Capn Jaspers. To date I have bribed two Chief Superintendents. I bought them a cup of tea and insisted the deposit went in the Fishermen's Mission charity box afterwards. Oh, and a Sergeant. He got a cup of tea as well. And a burger. In payment of the burger he'd bought me a few weeks before. I promised him it would balance out. <br />
<br />
Scandalous, aren't I!<br />
<br />
Devon and Cornwall Police have responded to Leveson by taking on recommendations by HMIC to ensure that all contacts between journalists on daily publications and police officers is <a href="http://www.thisisdevon.co.uk/Police-ordered-log-contact-journalists/story-16668405-detail/story.html#axzz2PKn274Lc" target="_blank">recorded</a>. Reporters on our sister weeklies don't have to go through the same thing, but the paper I'm currently working on, telly and radio, all have to submit to it. The copper has to note down on their computer system their name, the date, who they spoke to and from what organisation and what they talked about. The information gets sent off to the police press office who "monitor" it. <br />
<br />
Of course, any suggestions that officers will be carpeted if they speak to the wrong person, or say the wrong thing, are scurrilous, unfair and a downright untruth and I will horsewhip any of you who suggest such a thing... <br />
<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6taTYAYbTEmt6tMtqO_gF770emND3NrQ5iFlZ6awO7bPMZ_zrxPC56X-_twlEBoQk9atJjrGltZfp6LqAScu6IIaPxPLjf7oj3jYveTzUMSmVNOW8jAQ6AyFHTDNq34E_S6cLEhGBW7Ka/s1600/jimmyhill.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" mta="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6taTYAYbTEmt6tMtqO_gF770emND3NrQ5iFlZ6awO7bPMZ_zrxPC56X-_twlEBoQk9atJjrGltZfp6LqAScu6IIaPxPLjf7oj3jYveTzUMSmVNOW8jAQ6AyFHTDNq34E_S6cLEhGBW7Ka/s1600/jimmyhill.jpg" /></a></div>
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
<br /></div>
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
Sadly, despite these vicious rumours of it being used to terrify officers into choosing not to talk to the press, some officers appear to have found it far easier to, erm... well, not talk to the press. </div>
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
<br /></div>
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
I get a lot of "oh God, not you Carl, now I'll have to fill in one of those bloody forms and I'm up to my eyeballs in paperwork as it is... tell you what, you bugger off and I won't have to fill it in". I also get a couple of "but we're not allowed to talk to you anymore Carl - I'm sure there was an e-mail from one of the Chiefs saying not to talk to you. Everything has to go through the press office now. Yes I know they've gone home, but that's the new rule". I've even had a couple along the lines of "Can't really talk to you Carl. Apparently you're person non grata at the moment with the bosses. It was after that article you did... you know, the one about the Plymouth Headteachers having concerns about Op Encompass not working as well as it used to..." </div>
<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
I also occasionally get a few "feck the forms, this is not 1984 and I won't have some busybody in Middlemoor telling me I don't know what I can and can't talk to you about. Now, I've got this appeal I want in the paper and I want it prominent. And I've had a result on that racial assault and they're up in court next Thursday, can you get your magistrates reporter to cover it". Which is nice.</div>
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
<br /></div>
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
Anyway, there are trolls about, it's late and I've got to get home. Those brown envelopes won't stuff themselves you know... </div>
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
<br /></div>
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
PS</div>
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
I've just learned that Amy Childs, from that telly programme The Only Way Is Essex, is coming to town and I am praying to God, or in my case Billy Bragg, that I won't be sent to cover it. Please Billy, watch over me and keep me safe from <a href="http://www.thisisdevon.co.uk/TOWIE-star-Amy-Childs-visit-Plymouth-s-Drake/story-18587207-detail/story.html#axzz2PKn274Lc" target="_blank">celebrities</a>...</div>
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
<br /></div>
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
<br /></div>
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
<br /></div>
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
<br /></div>
Carl Evehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03930750600999601721noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1621615767238069849.post-16318523918385072432012-07-12T15:15:00.001-07:002012-07-12T15:44:00.298-07:00"Whine, Whinge, Moan, Gripe" - yes, now you too can speak Plymothian like a native...<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMqfDNdOCGMpNOpUTyVtGALXVdl7Ij7YTinf0i-nx_uVL-1TfcVV4wlzbAlHGZ69HfIAF9K7cfv8lJ9Muf2XXVsUjybhi_u1XnHUXc9ksLKBJvpLt-hLUhWn9LNXyrc9-SDj1fJIdNXO_f/s1600/nevman1.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img $ca="true" border="0" height="286" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMqfDNdOCGMpNOpUTyVtGALXVdl7Ij7YTinf0i-nx_uVL-1TfcVV4wlzbAlHGZ69HfIAF9K7cfv8lJ9Muf2XXVsUjybhi_u1XnHUXc9ksLKBJvpLt-hLUhWn9LNXyrc9-SDj1fJIdNXO_f/s400/nevman1.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rl_NpdAy3WY&feature=related" target="_blank">"You love us, you really love us..."</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div align="left" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Ooooooooooooooh, some people. I mean, really, some people. It's gets so that you hurry the day when you have to pass a test and get a licence to allow you to put comments on the internet. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Fortunately, that day isn't here and anyone can put the boot in on anyone else, ideally under the cover of a false name with no chance of anyone finding out who you are... unless you have the bottle to say who you are... or are stupid enough to say who you are. Yes, I am the latter, welcome to my small world. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">I found this on a <a href="http://www.thisisplymouth.co.uk/VIDEO-Heavy-rain-floods-Plymouth-Yealmpton/story-16495839-detail/story.html" target="_blank">story</a> which I'd spent much of a Saturday out in the rain covering, then followed up with a <a href="http://www.thisisplymouth.co.uk/MPs-demand-know-rape-suspect-escaped-police/story-16504088-detail/story.html" target="_blank">corking tale</a> about an escaped suspect from a police station. By the time I got home (around 8.30pm), the kids were abed and upset I hadn't read them their bedtime story as I always try to do, dinner was cold and the Mrs was doing a fair impersonation of a highly unamused partner. And who could blame her? I am not the kind of guy you find in 50 Shades of Grey... more like 17 Versions Of A Sickly Green Colour... </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I mean Nevman has a point, I'm not saying he doesn't. But he seems to think we have an army of reporters and the kind of backing seen at The Mail, the Sunday Times or the Observer, with hosts of reporters, plus stringers, freelances, part-timers and oodles of subs and proof-readers. We don't. We're a local paper. We do, however, have articles which those three newspapers, along with all the other nationals, regularly partake of (read "steal") and then put their name to. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So it got me to thinking, what the blinking flip have I been doing since I got here. I mean, I'm no investigative journalist. I'm no Nick Davies, or Seymour Hersh, or John Sweeney (although I have worked alongside Sweeney on a piece of investigative journalism which I'm particularly proud of and really, really got up the noses of the MoD, but that was another time and another news organisation)</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So, I had a bit of a dig in respects to what could be construed as my own "lack of depth and background to articles" and my own "absence of investigative journalism": </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Well, we could start here – which we got first and then BBC et al followed up on… </span><a href="http://www.thisisplymouth.co.uk/Man-tried-tell-police-seen-escaped-rape-suspect/story-16514502-detail/story.html"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">http://www.thisisplymouth.co.uk/Man-tried-tell-police-seen-escaped-rape-suspect/story-16514502-detail/story.html</span></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Earlier this year there was - </span><a href="http://www.thisisplymouth.co.uk/pound-950k-seized-Plymouth-club-boss-Jersey/story-15306195-detail/story.html"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">http://www.thisisplymouth.co.uk/pound-950k-seized-Plymouth-club-boss-Jersey/story-15306195-detail/story.html</span></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> - this one took, off and on, a year of digging and being knocked back, even to the point of getting an MP to ask a minister who appeared to not give the full picture. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<a href="http://www.thisisplymouth.co.uk/Dance-Academy-boss-tells-unimaginable-torment/story-14436666-detail/story.html"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">http://www.thisisplymouth.co.uk/Dance-Academy-boss-tells-unimaginable-torment/story-14436666-detail/story.html</span></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Then there’s some late night being out on the beat: </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<a href="http://www.thisisplymouth.co.uk/Inside-raid-Border-Agency-targets-Plymouth/story-16364272-detail/story.html"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">http://www.thisisplymouth.co.uk/Inside-raid-Border-Agency-targets-Plymouth/story-16364272-detail/story.html</span></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> –having already done a day’s work in the office, and yes, this'll get to be a moaning theme of mine, as it does with every crime reporter because our subjects do not like to keep respectable hours) </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Then there’s the times I’ve been out into the very early hours – having already done a full day at work - </span><a href="http://www.thisisplymouth.co.uk/line-war-poachers/story-13470919-detail/story.html"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">http://www.thisisplymouth.co.uk/line-war-poachers/story-13470919-detail/story.html</span></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> & </span><a href="http://www.thisisplymouth.co.uk/Plymouth-police-target-deer-poachers/story-15505538-detail/story.html"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">http://www.thisisplymouth.co.uk/Plymouth-police-target-deer-poachers/story-15505538-detail/story.html</span></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> (and no, we don’t ever, ever got overtime payments… again another theme with reporters, sorry to go on... and on... and ... you get the picture)</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">There's kind of a theme with these three: </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<a href="http://www.thisisplymouth.co.uk/Gang-smuggled-heroin-Plymouth-jailed-40-years/story-14228066-detail/story.html"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">http://www.thisisplymouth.co.uk/Gang-smuggled-heroin-Plymouth-jailed-40-years/story-14228066-detail/story.html</span></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<a href="http://www.thisisplymouth.co.uk/gang-flooded-Plymouth-drugs/story-13619976-detail/story.html"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">http://www.thisisplymouth.co.uk/gang-flooded-Plymouth-drugs/story-13619976-detail/story.html</span></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<a href="http://www.thisisplymouth.co.uk/Area-manager-flooded-city-streets-drugs/story-14228011-detail/story.html"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">http://www.thisisplymouth.co.uk/Area-manager-flooded-city-streets-drugs/story-14228011-detail/story.html</span></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> - which again took ages of interviews with detectives who weren't usually okay with talking to a reporter. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Then there’s this ongoing story which I'm particularly proud of for personal and professional reasons, yet no other news organisation was interested in for around a year, where Plymouth schools, council and police lead the entire country on something truly worthwhile - </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<a href="http://www.thisisplymouth.co.uk/phone-school-save-life/story-12859696-detail/story.html"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">http://www.thisisplymouth.co.uk/phone-school-save-life/story-12859696-detail/story.html</span></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Which, for a longer read you can go to </span><a href="http://public.merlin.swgfl.org.uk/establishments/997pgr4/DevonandCornwall/OperationEncompass/Supporting_documents/Forms/AllItems.aspx"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">http://public.merlin.swgfl.org.uk/establishments/997pgr4/DevonandCornwall/OperationEncompass/Supporting_documents/Forms/AllItems.aspx</span></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">as long as you ignore the commendation bit... I'm vain, but there's only so much adulation you can take. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Add to that the Kelly Edney story (</span><a href="http://www.thisiscornwall.co.uk/ERRORS-LED-ESCAPE-VIOLENT-RAPIST/story-11403887-detail/story.html"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">http://www.thisiscornwall.co.uk/ERRORS-LED-ESCAPE-VIOLENT-RAPIST/story-11403887-detail/story.html</span></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">) which took nearly two years of FoI haggling with Prison Service and Information Commissioner. Okay, it's a bit old, but cases like that don't come around often in sleepy Plymouth.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And the backgrounders on Nicky Reilly </span><a href="http://www.thisiscornwall.co.uk/turned-terror/story-11375525-detail/story.html"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">http://www.thisiscornwall.co.uk/turned-terror/story-11375525-detail/story.html</span></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> & <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><a href="http://www.thisiscornwall.co.uk/ll-support-son/story-11468132-detail/story.html"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">http://www.thisiscornwall.co.uk/ll-support-son/story-11468132-detail/story.html</span></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> & </span><a href="http://www.thisiscornwall.co.uk/Bomb-brought-community-closer/story-11421187-detail/story.html"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">http://www.thisiscornwall.co.uk/Bomb-brought-community-closer/story-11421187-detail/story.html</span></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And Vanessa George many of which really did give me nightmares by the end... </span><a href="http://www.thisiscornwall.co.uk/Nightmare-endures-George-s-ex-colleagues/story-11397210-detail/story.html"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">http://www.thisiscornwall.co.uk/Nightmare-endures-George-s-ex-colleagues/story-11397210-detail/story.html</span></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> & </span><a href="http://www.thisiscornwall.co.uk/New-identity-George-tale-ridiculed/story-11439851-detail/story.html"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">http://www.thisiscornwall.co.uk/New-identity-George-tale-ridiculed/story-11439851-detail/story.html</span></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> & </span><a href="http://www.thisiscornwall.co.uk/Nursery-ideal-abuse/story-11498962-detail/story.html"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">http://www.thisiscornwall.co.uk/Nursery-ideal-abuse/story-11498962-detail/story.html</span></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> & </span><a href="http://www.thisiscornwall.co.uk/POLICE-FACED-RACE-CLOCK/story-11377587-detail/story.html"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">http://www.thisiscornwall.co.uk/POLICE-FACED-RACE-CLOCK/story-11377587-detail/story.html</span></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Now this is just a quick-as-I-could-get selection of stuff I’ve written in the past four years… there’s lot of stuff I know I’ve written but can’t find online about police investigations - the Chinese brothels/traffickers case, the Essex/Plymouth cocaine dealers, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>the Vietnamese cannabis crime gangs which I was the first to highlight down in the South West, even the in depth interviews with rape victims, victims of domestic abuse. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Now, that’s just my stuff. Admittedly, I could be doing more, but there is the day to day gubbins to be getting on with, writing about incidents and crimes, doing picture captions for charity events, schools events, amateur theatrics, appeals for witnesses (many of which work and I have coppers galore admitting to me that they’ve had a result from The Herald and/or thisisplymouth appeals), plus fluffy bunny stuff like </span><a href="http://www.thisisplymouth.co.uk/VIDEO-Plymouth-s-Charlotte-Holmes-crowned-Miss/story-16456523-detail/story.html"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">http://www.thisisplymouth.co.uk/VIDEO-Plymouth-s-Charlotte-Holmes-crowned-Miss/story-16456523-detail/story.html</span></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> and </span><a href="http://www.thisisplymouth.co.uk/Heading-headig-headig-heading-headig-headig/story-13630670-detail/story.html"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">http://www.thisisplymouth.co.uk/Heading-headig-headig-heading-headig-headig/story-13630670-detail/story.html</span></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> (I know, shame about the heading, eh)</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Now, add to this some of the phenomenal material dug out by people at The Herald like Edd Moore who covered the Plymouth Argyle shenanigans solidly for more than a year so brilliantly that other news organisations were reading him to find out what was going on. Some of political reporter Keith Rossiter’s work, and health reporter Diana Prince’s work has been incredible, insightful and revealing, covering both the nitty gritty of the NHS and council to the personal stories. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Not to mention the award-winning work of defence reporter Tristan Nichols who spent three months alongside “our boys” in Afghanistan, one of the first local reporters to be embedded for such a length of time with frontline operational servicemen. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I really think not enough credit is given to The Herald for having not one, but two full time court reporters Stuart Abel and Graham Broach - one for the magistrates and one for the crown. My last paper in Essex had one such reporter, just for crown and just for Basildon. The Southend office would occasionally go to mags and crown court, as would the Thurrock office, but not everyday and not both courts. So to have two is quite remarkable and really gives Plymouth a view of the justice being meted out in the public’s name. I wonder if the Plymouth people would rather that was hidden from their gaze?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">One thing which bothered me was the dismissive tone about the “human interest” stories. My old news-ed (Dave - he'd been a reporter for longer than I’d been alive by the time I started at the Echo) used to say “people like to read about people”. Which meant that whatever the story, however big, however seemingly divorced from mere mortals, it would actually always have a human dimension worth revealing. A massive new housing development? Who will it benefit and who will it harm? Incinerator near a school? Talk to the pupil or teacher with asthma. A crime or court verdict? Talk to the copper and the victim, or the victim’s family. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Dave also used to say "Eve, what's this sh**? Can't you spell properly? If you send me one more bit of copy with a 'teh' instead of 'the' I'll come over there and rip out your liver you feckin' muppet" on a regular basis, so take what he said about people-wanting-to-read-about-people with a pinch of salt if you wish...</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As for not noting Plymouth’s weaknesses? What, like this paper has never ever mentioned the city's racist element, it’s above-average number of child-abusers, it’s small-minded stuck-20-years-behind-rest-of-UK mentality, it’s crap internet speeds and train-to-London timetable, it’s lack of a bleedin’ airport, diminishing dockyard and lack of use of its derelict spaces and properties left to rot…. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I mean, the paper loves the city, but you have to be honest in any relationship, don't you?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Personally speaking, and keeping in mind I'm not local, as is often said to me with a finger jabbing into my chest by someone with three-too-many fingers on a regular basis, I’ll tell you one thing we really don’t focus on in this city as much as I’d like to since I arrived here six years ago – how much people in this city feckin’ moan… I mean they REALLY do moan a lot. Everything from the sky to the ground, the sea to the rivers, the view to the smell, the streets to the pavement. (Although, the potholes are a real pain in the suspension if you know what I mean, I'm with you there on that one folks)</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">What I will say in defence of the paper is it’s not perfect, despite the efforts of the staff at the place. It’s easy to carp from the sidelines, (especially anonymously, without risk of being identified), it’s easy to forget the good articles (such as the Support for Devonport campaign), it’s easy to remember the spelling mistake, or the missing word or comma. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It is not perfect, but I'm pretty sure that here, as with many other local newspapers up and down this green, pleasant and wet land that the reporters and others at those papers will continue to do their best to get the news of their town/city to the people of aforementioned town/city. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Meanwhile, for those of you who girded your loins to read this ongoing pile of horse manure I write, if you've been invited by the guvnor of The Herald, why not take a shot and give it a go? What have you got to lose, other than your pre and mis conceptions? </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Love, as always... (mutter, mutter, grumble, grouch, mutter, grumble...)</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>Carl Evehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03930750600999601721noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1621615767238069849.post-81881588702704152352012-07-02T12:39:00.001-07:002012-07-03T02:39:28.313-07:00I asked the barmaid for a double entendre - and she gave me one...I like writing, even when not at work. I joined a writing course after moving down to Plymouth, thanks to my colleague William Telford. It was led by a wonderful, funny and earthy teacher called Roy York. Roy was a sprightly, "senior citizen" with a good line in rude one-liners, a love of film noir and a vast knowledge of literature, writers, the art of writing and comedy. <br />
Roy encouraged my writing like no-one else since I was a schoolboy and lusted after Mrs Smith, my English teacher, for whom I would would write lavish stories in the vain hope that one day she'd see me as a kindred soul, dump Mr Smith and be my Mrs Robinson. <br />
She didn't, but it never stopped me trying. <br />
Roy would encourage amatuer writers like me, but also he'd amuse and entertain us with his own big book of funny anecdotes and observations during the classes we took out at Millfields. If I wrote something a bit too saucy or gritty for the older members of the group, he was as supportive as if I'd written something mature and worthy. I rarely did write anything mature and worthy. Well, what d'you expect? But we both like an element of filth and an element of gritty violence.<br />
Sadly, <a href="http://www.thisisplymouth.co.uk/Tributes-flood-Plymouth-comedy-genius-Roy-York/story-16445801-detail/story.html" target="_blank">Roy passed away</a> recently after fighting a variety of illnesses that Fate likes to put in our way. His death leaves a very big hole in a lot of Plymouth writers' lives. <br />
Here's something I wrote for one of our evening classes, to highlight the kind of meetings I've attended as a reporter, but also to give a big nod to the likes of the I'm Sorry I Haven't A Clue radio programmes and the Carry On film series. We read all our stories/poems/haikus out loud, so when you get a laugh from your classmates, it's joy to the ears. But getting a grin from Roy... that was always gold. Bless you Roy. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<strong><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">July Committee Meeting of the Innuendo and Double Entendre Association (Little Nobbing branch) </span></strong><br />
<br />
<strong><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">1) Apologies for Absence:</span></strong><br />
<strong><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Vice Chairman Humphrey de-la Fleur offered his apologies. He said he wasn’t feeling himself tonight but hoped to be coming out later this evening before his wife got home. </span></strong><br />
<br />
<strong><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">2) Declarations of Interest</span></strong><br />
<strong><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Committee Secretary Sasha Boomdiere revealed she had an ongoing interest in the Little Nobbing Rovers football team, the Little Nobbing Cricket Team and the First Nobbing Scout Troop.</span></strong><br />
<strong><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Social Secretary David Gimlet asked the committee to note he regularly wrote for the town’s weekly paper for a small sum. <br />Ms Boomdiere said she had often cast her eye over Mr Gimlet’s column and congratulated him on its length and content, adding it always brought a smile to her face. </span></strong><br />
<strong><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />3) Minutes of last meeting:</span></strong><br />
<strong><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Branch secretary Gerta String read the minutes of the previous meeting which were agreed by the committee. She said she hoped this meeting will not go on for as long as the last meeting as she often found her fingers became quite stiff after taking down everyone’s particulars. </span></strong><br />
<br />
<strong><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">4) Treasurer’s Report:</span></strong><br />
<strong><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Eileen Felt said there was very little cash left in the kitty as of last month after members had been regularly whipping it out. </span></strong><br />
<strong><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">She hoped members would remember to make substantial deposits into her safe-box in the coming weeks. Eileen said either a cheque or postal order would be preferable and members could give her one at the end of any meeting. </span></strong><br />
<strong><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Eileen said she had sought out a financial advisor who had made a couple of suggestions about where she could get a lot of interest. </span></strong><br />
<strong><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Eileen also wanted to reassure all members that she had a firm grip on the finances and had bent over backwards to ensure her kitty was easily available at all times. </span></strong><br />
<br />
<strong><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">5) Social Secretary’s Report:</span></strong><br />
<strong><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">David Gimlet was pleased to note the association had enjoyed a few busy nights on the social diary of late with a host of organised events. </span></strong><br />
<strong><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">He said what with the bad weather he had worked up quite a sweat on many a filthy night, trying to come up with activities for members to get stuck into. </span></strong><br />
<strong><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">One such was a evening of golf. All members got a chance to play a round, and we were given tips on how to improve our swinging from a pro who been entered in the Open. One of our number apparently had a birdie on the 18th hole and celebrated by throwing their balls into a nearby bush. </span></strong><br />
<strong><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Some of the more alcoholic evenings at our local – the Duck and Swallow – have resulted in a few members finding it hard to remain erect by the end of the night. One of our lady members was said to have had more than one Bishop’s Finger inside her, leading to her being in a rather excitable state come last orders. </span></strong><br />
<strong><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">David said he also appreciated the help from the Chairman’s wife, Sarah Loins, on the stalls for the summer fayre. He said she was invaluable with the extra-large snakes and ladders board she had created, with David later learning that Mrs Loins had been working on the game for quite some time. </span></strong><br />
<br />
<strong><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">6) Chairman’s Report:</span></strong><br />
<strong><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Our chairman, Roger Loins, remarked on the impressive number our association had grown to in recent years. He was particularly pleased the Little Nobbing branch was now larger than our sister branch at the neighbouring village of Nibbling-under-Lyme. </span></strong><br />
<strong><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">He wish to offer commiserations to the outgoing chairman of the Nibbling-under-Lyme who was retiring early due to advancement in years and ill-health, adding he hoped there was no hard feelings. Former chairman Hamish McTaggart said he had harboured no hard feelings for a while now. </span></strong><br />
<strong><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">There was also a hope the two branches could meet up for a forthcoming social event at nearby farmland he had inherited from his good friend, the widow Macintosh, who sadly passed away last month. He said she had always promised him she would leave him with a couple of acres and, as usual, she didn’t disappoint. </span></strong><br />
<strong><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Chairman Loins queried his failed attempts in recent weeks to contact our Treasurer regarding deposits and withdrawals. It appears he had little joy in asking the receptionist at her workplace when was the best time to get Eileen Felt. <br /> </span></strong><br />
<strong><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">7) Any Other Business:</span></strong><br />
<strong><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Church warden Bernard Hind has asked the committee if it could vacate the church hall early next month as he needed to prepare the flags and insignia he bought for the next Scout and Guide parade. It appears he will be asking Brown Owl and Akela to spend most of the evening helping him polish his regalia. </span></strong><br />
<strong><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Chairman Loins also urged members to be cautious when advertising their membership of the association to the local press, noting how one gentleman at a branch in Scunthorpe had been hung out to dry by the tabloids. </span></strong><br />
<br />
<strong><br /><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span></strong>Carl Evehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03930750600999601721noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1621615767238069849.post-66004712172336461592012-05-08T13:02:00.000-07:002012-05-08T13:02:30.013-07:00We're So Sorry, Uncle Albert<br />
Right. I know. Yes, yes, you're right, I'm sorry. No really, I am. <br />
<br />
I have been somewhat lapse. <br />
<br />
There's some good reasons. One of the main ones was disillusionment. I retorted to some comments which were added to a story I wrote and in hindsight, I shouldn't have. I mean, part of me still feels I should have the right to respond to intimidation, but arguing with anonymous commenters... well. As better and more experienced bloggers have noted before, feeding the trolls is a kind of pointless and damaging exercise. Trolls like the oxygen of publicity and responding to them is grade A oxygen, fresh from the mountain-tops of the Himalayas. Added to which, I got my nuts slapped (metaphorically) by my "work" and bluntly told to shut the feck up. Which was good advice, albeit too late for my benefit. <br />
<br />
Needless to say, it does put a little pinch on your desire to write freely, openly and without any fettering. So, I've held off. <br />
<br />
Also, time... three sons keeps me rather busy, as does the full time job, as does the full time partner, as does the full time dog, cat and new cat. Yes, new cat. Thank you Woodside. Thank you for yet another cat to feed. Hopefully this one will be friendly and settle on my lap, giving me an excuse to say "honey... I can't get up to help you with the dishwasher... the new cat has just settled on my lap and it'd be cruel to get up now" [and no, I don't think that will ever work, for the record]<br />
<br />
Also... this cold. No really - I've had this cold since November last year. I say cold, but it's a blocked nose and enough mucous coughing up and down my airways to supply the next Alien film with that material that drips from its mandibles. I'm actually getting worried about it and even thinking unmanly thoughts about going to the doctor's *again*. I know, second time in six months - what an absolute girls' blouse, eh?<br />
<br />
The repeated nightmares about Zombie Apocalypse has not affected me however. I still believe it will come and only those with shotguns and high ground will survive. Alternatively, only those who can set up running machines all around the outside of their house will survive. The Walking Dead cannot run and thus when the treadmills are set to jog, they will be buggered. These are facts, ignore them at your peril. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhFk6UTPXNCn9CLKgtMzmhC0Kyh1v49XqtgEhk5yr3FDGegdBsn6mKpoQP0N5y5FoUKyMzIAlfkoi_p0XTUKAKa8gKCWeJ6FPAmn0AaCfG2UkBu18OKT4RYx5rgWsOYRCIHbRnkiXQt5HN/s1600/dell0965.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" dba="true" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhFk6UTPXNCn9CLKgtMzmhC0Kyh1v49XqtgEhk5yr3FDGegdBsn6mKpoQP0N5y5FoUKyMzIAlfkoi_p0XTUKAKa8gKCWeJ6FPAmn0AaCfG2UkBu18OKT4RYx5rgWsOYRCIHbRnkiXQt5HN/s320/dell0965.jpg" width="205" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
Anyway, point being, I will return to proper blogging now as there's a lot of stuff I'm in the mood to chat about again. I'll even take requests. No really, I will, but obviously "naff off hippy journo filth" will not be acted up, regardless of how many times you shout it Mum... <br />
<br />
I still enjoy writing, any kind of writing. The writing club I've joined is fun, the writing I do for The Herald is still my very enjoyable job, and writing on this blog is cathartic. <br />
<br />
However, I don't think I'll be dual publishing the notlocal blog on the thisisplymouth site anymore.... Plymouth has a lot of great things about it, it really, really does... but it also has a lot of Trolls and people who are happy to let the Trolls have free reign. I think thisisplymouth will get along fine without me. Anyways, they can always come over to my gaff here and try their luck. I still work on the basis that no-one's listening/reading and I'm the last one left, on the shortwave radio to a barren wasteland. It's that Zombie Apocalypse again... I told you it was on my mind a lot, didn't I?<br />
<br />
Anyways, Hi, hope you're all well and let's see how we go... <br />
<br />
Carl - and I'm still not local. <br />
<br />Carl Evehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03930750600999601721noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1621615767238069849.post-89220681227757449042011-12-12T09:49:00.000-08:002011-12-12T09:59:01.426-08:00Can't Stand Losing YouOne of the reasons I like being a reporter is you do get to hear some interesting stuff. And 'interesting' is a very broad church.<br />I do get to hear gossip, and intrigue, and truly slanderous stuff, inside information, dirty deals, inappropriate material. And being such an inquisitive - alright, nosy - geezer, I do love it. Downside is you get to hear some very upsetting stuff, and despite what you think about the cold heartedness of reporters, most of the time it does get to us.<br />I mean, I got all choked up when a Navy sub came home earlier this year, because all of the families on the dock, the hugs, the atmosphere, the brass band playing, the wives and girlfriends breaking down, the sailors clutching their partners and cuddling their children.<br />One of my fellow reporters recently worried that she wasn't being tough enough because she blubbed at the return of HMS Ocean.<br />I told her I'd wobbled and it was okay because we are human.<br />No, honest, we are and I have a doctor's certificate to prove it.<br />I won't deny I've occasionally cried at funerals of people I don't even know, because the service is so moving, the music so haunting, the words spoken so honest and sad.<br />I've always cried at funerals for kids.<br />I hate covering a child's funeral. Really, really hate it. They're always the most heartbreaking things to cover as a reporter and personally speaking, the smaller the coffin, the more awful I feel being there.<br />One, because any child's death is a sad affair.<br />Two, because as a parent myself my heart goes out to the parent of the dead child and how much agony they must be in, and three I darkly imagine how I'd get through it if it was one of my kids in that little box with rows of people sitting numbly in front.<br />Now, there's been a lot of debate online about reporters covering deaths, particularly what is termed in the "industry" as 'death-knocks'.<br />The main point of the debate boils down to "why do evil, callous, parasite reporters knock on people's doors within hours of them losing a loved one, the evil, callous, parasitic b'stards?'<br />It's not necessarily an unfair question. But if you've done them, the answer is easy.<br />You're sent, because that's your job.<br />What isn't easy is actually doing them. Nor is understanding why people do talk to you.<br />In fact, understanding why the great majority of people you knock on the door of, do want you to come in and talk to you... well, it doesn't seem to make sense... until you do them.<br />Because when you've lost someone, you all sit around together, heartbroken, stunned, hollow, trying to come to terms with what to do next.<br />Then in walks someone who doesn't know this dead person and asks straight out, 'can you tell me about them, what were they like, what did they say that made you laugh, what did they do that infuriated you, what was their favourite music/film/book/meal, what did they want to be when they were little, what will you miss most about them?<br />'Who were they, that other people could possibly know what they've missed out on. Who was this person they will never know. Can you help me write something they helps explain why they were so wonderful to you, explains why their leaving this world means you feel so terrible right now.'<br />And so, they do tell you.<br />And you often wish you did know this person, because they sound just like someone you would like.<br />I don't like doing death knocks at all.<br />I do know reporters who are decent people who don't have as much of a problem with them.<br />I don't think I've ever met a reporter who 'enjoys' doing them.<br />But the one's I have done, the person who's telling me things is often smiling as they do so.<br />It's the first chance they've had since their loss to enthuse with another human about the person they love who has gone.<br />I've interviewed families - parents, siblings, friends - as a group and often they start to tell stories to each other, surprising each other with tales that other family members never knew about.<br />They often learn new things about the deceased, a tale about who was really responsible for a broken plate when siblings where young, or a dad lets slip about them on a weekend away that mum never knew, or some medal grandad was awarded that no-one but grandma knew about.<br />The stories are often warm, jovial, endearing, full of humour, admiration, love.<br />A couple of times, I leave the house and there's been more smiles than tears.<br />Good memories of a loved one, not sadness.<br />So, I go back to the office and try and put that person across on paper, the way their loved ones have done so to me, to let you - the readers - know what you missed, never got the chance to meet, to know, to love as much as their family did.<br />I consider it an onerous task. I've been given a great responsibility. It's not the sort of thing I should take lightly.<br />And I don't. Ever.<br />Neither do my colleagues, at least all the ones I've ever worked with.<br />That's a death knock.<br />When you've written it, it becomes a 'tribute' piece.<br />And before you ask, yes, I've done death knocks on people who've been complete gits most of their lives.<br />But even the most obnoxious git has someone who loves them and mourns their passing.<br />And I'll record that too.<br />Until you're there, in that situation, you can't know or understand the way it'll go.<br />Maybe you'll close the door quickly, maybe you won't even answer it. Maybe you'll open it wide and let the reporter in.<br />Regardless, reporters will still call, still record what's said, and write it.<br />That, as I said earlier, is our job.<br /><br />****************************************<br /><br />To end, I'll give an example of what I mean.<br />I once did a death knock on a mum who's 19 year old son died when his car span off the road and hit a tree.<br />Lovely woman, really kind, in shock. Her friend was with her, giving support and I called on her for the tribute. We had cups of tea. She told me all about him. He sounded a typical Essex teenager really. A bit of a lad, one for the ladies, liked his motor more than anything.<br />I got back to the office late and started writing.<br />Then I got a call from his best friend, effing and blinding, shouting about how evil I was, how obscene it was that I'd bothered his mate's mum, how stinking vile I was, why the bloody hell I'd bothered her?<br />'Because as of right now, your mate is number 15, and that's all he'll ever be if I don't write this.'<br />*Eh? What are you going on about?* he shouted.<br />'Your mate was the 15th person to die on this county's roads this year. Just another number in a long list of people who've died. Next week there will be a number 16, then 17 and so on until we start all over again with number 1 next year. This way, he's John Smith, a teenager who was loved by his mum, who liked cars, liked girls, liked certain music and clothes and had some really good mates. He's not another statistic, he's a person and people will be able to remember him as a person, not a statistic'.<br />It all went quiet for a while, and then his best friend apologised profusely, stumbling over his words, trying to take it all back.<br />I made it very clear that it was completely alright, there was no problem at all, it was very understandable and he wasn't to worry, fer chrissakes he'd just lost his best mate, of course he's upset and angry and everything.<br />He shyly asked if he could add some comments of his own to the article I was writing.<br />I was more than happy to oblige.<br />The kid's mum phoned up later, wanting to change a word. She'd said he was a bit of a devil, or something which didn't really match him properly.<br />I already knew what she'd really meant when she said it, and I'd changed it to something like tyke or rascal.<br />She said that was what she'd really meant and thanked me.<br /><br />What I did is nothing unusual. It is what most reporters (local - can't talk for the nationals) do everyday.<br />It may seem strange, but there it is. I hope that helps the debate.Carl Evehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03930750600999601721noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1621615767238069849.post-87484828215188836532011-10-07T11:50:00.000-07:002013-12-12T15:05:46.810-08:00Listen, do you want to know a secret, do you promise not to tell..?<span style="color: #33ff33;"></span><span style="font-size: 0;"></span><br />
So, there’s stuff I <em>can’t</em> tell you, there’s stuff I <em>won’t</em> tell you and stuff I <em>shouldn’t</em> tell you. Eventually, after all that, there’s the stuff I <em>do</em> tell you.<br />
<br />
You’d think I would be allowed to tell you everything. But there’s the law, like <a href="http://www.legislation.gov.uk/ukpga/1981/49">contempt of court </a>and <a href="http://www.legislation.gov.uk/ukpga/1996/31/contents">libel</a>. There’s promises, there’s off-the-record, there’s ‘it’s only a rumour’, then there’s a basketcase-full of ‘no, I swear it’s true, no really, would I lie to you?’<br />
<br />
Looking back over the past few months there’s been so much stuff I can’t impart. If I go back even further, there’s material I may never be able to print. Like the major drug dealer who got put away for quite a bit, who admitted to me he pretty much did dish out all the torture he was accused of doing but never, ever, stuck a certain something up someone’s <a href="http://www.cockneyrhymingslang.co.uk/slang/aris">Aris</a>.<br />
But back to recent-ish events, I can’t really tell you about two ‘organisations’ in our fair city who decided to get a bit tasty with each other. And possibly why. And how far it nearly got.<br />
I can’t really tell you about who’s buying which business, who they’re linked to, what the person they’re linked to is up to and how frequently they’re linked to questionable people and questionable incidents.<br />
And, despite all this hoo-haa currently in the media and legal circles and blog-world about worrisome links between the police and the media, my conversations with some members of Plod has to stay close to my chest. Sometimes it’s just gossip, sometimes it’s about silly cock-ups, sometimes it’s a bit more, but revealing it would compromise <a href="http://www.thegetstuffed.co.uk/index.htm">my source</a>. Sometimes it’s a massive, monumental feck up which I try different avenues to publish my other means, but fail to do, due to lack of hard evidence. I’m looking at one currently, and it’s a doozy.<br />
<br />
Then there’s who’s about to be nicked, or charged, who’s got a good brief, who’s got a duff one, who’s been found “not guilty” because their barrister was sharper than the CPS and got half the evidence struck out, which if the jury heard it they’d have absolutely, definitely have found them guilty, assuming the CPS hadn’t cut a deal or the judge decided he’d accept the deal rather than go to the expense of a trial. I mean, a jury? What’s the point, eh? It’s not like the justice system is based around trusting 12 people to have the common sense to hear the evidence and decide whether the person in the dock is guilty or not guilty, is it?<br />
No really, I was in a court room not long ago and that happened. You’ll be seeing a person who’s pleaded guilty be sentenced for something that even the investigating officer has admitted to me they didn’t do. This person did something else, but by coughing to an alternative charge, they’ll be dealt with, a jury won’t be necessary and the troublesome expense of a trial will be saved for the public purse. The fact there’s no evidence at all for what they’re admitting is not the point… don’t you worry your pretty little head about it sweetie.<br />
I know. But as the Bard of Barking said: “<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IiSXGjVriUE&feature=related">This isn’t a court of justice son, this is a court of law</a>”…<br />
So, why don’t I tell you?<br />
Sometimes, I’d like to. But there’s reasons – perhaps I can’t stand it up. Perhaps it’d mean a whopping great libel action which means money we can’t afford. Or it’d mean a contempt of court, which means more money on legal fees, an embarrassing time in court and possibly an even more embarrassing time in prison. And I am no <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0111161/">Andy Dufresne </a>or <a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/comedy/porridge/">Lennie Godber</a>.<br />
Sometimes, it’s best you don’t know.<br />
<br />
Oh, you think?<br />
<br />
Okay – sitting in the magistrates court for Vanessa George when they described what she did in graphic detail. Or in Crown Court to hear what child rapists <a href="http://www.thisisplymouth.co.uk/18-years-bars-rapist-abused-children/story-12866964-detail/story.html">Robert Rohleder </a>and <a href="http://www.thisisplymouth.co.uk/Rapist-cries-jailed-12-years/story-12832423-detail/story.html">Darren Campbell</a> did?<br />
I can’t imagine you do want to hear the details, because I know I didn’t when I had to write it down in my notepad, because it comes back to your mind’s eye when you forget to block it out.<br />
Or that a recently convicted rapist targeted a woman who was a prostitute, because her business wasn’t the reason she was targeted, she was targeted because she was a woman and she was there and she became a victim and what she does to get by from one day to the next is none of your damn business.<br />
Yeah, yeah, so maybe you should be allowed to hear more, maybe you deserve to hear more. I agree, no really I do.<br />
<br />
But it’s just that, well… there’s just some things I can’t tell you, there’s some things I won’t tell you and there’s some things I shouldn’t tell you…<br />
<br />
And let’s be honest… there’s a lot of stuff you lot don’t tell me.<br />
<br />
There’s also a lot of stuff the criminals don’t tell me.<br />
<br />
And, hardly surprising this, there’s the stuff the police don’t tell me. Like when they get warned off from raising their concerns about the cuts to me, such as the 80 or so civilian investigators who are being <a href="http://www.thisisplymouth.co.uk/Civilian-detectives-police-cuts-bite/story-11728371-detail/story.html">tossed out the door next week</a>, which will mean less investigators trying to solve the same number of crimes. Or they just don’t tell me stuff because they think I’m an interfering git, which is more often as not the real reason. Well, I mean they think it… not that I am an interfering git. Well, not all the time anyway.<br />
So, y’know, it all balances out in the end, no?<br />
<br />
And you didn’t hear that from me, right?Carl Evehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03930750600999601721noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1621615767238069849.post-67268425690761449892011-08-02T10:42:00.000-07:002011-08-02T11:06:21.213-07:00At the tone, leave your name, number and morality...Thanks to an old friend of mine who suggested the topic, I thought I'd put my half-pee's worth in on the recent "media cack-storm".<br />Being a local reporter, especially a crime reporter, is mainly about trying to get people to trust me.<br />I know. It's like the joke about the guy who puts his dick in the mouth of a lion at a circus and asks if there's anyone brave enough to do the same. And one wag shouts up, 'sure, but do I have to kneel down in all that sawdust?'<br />Actually it's probably not, but I thought I'd put that in there because it always makes me laugh.<br />Is this Hackergate stuff a laughing matter though?<br />No, not really.<br />Personally, I've felt rather pleased to see reporters and news organisations I have loathed for decades - who've behaved in a way that makes me angry and frustrated that my job title is sullied by them, who've come to town and crapped in my field whenever a big story takes place on my patch - finally get their comeuppance.<br />Problem is, when you've chosen to fart at a disco, everyone standing nearby gets given the same look of disgust and disdain.<br />Some of the vitriol and bile poured out across the interwebbything has been undoubtedly cathartic for many outraged folk (however faux - I mean, some of it has sounded similar to the righteous indignation from the hysterical whipped up frenzy that was of Manuelgate, and that didn't produce half the resignations).<br />What's caused me to bang my head against my keyboard in exasperation and depression has been the increasing vitriol and bile aimed at local reporters on local/regional newspapers.<br />Case in point -<a href="http://www.guardian.co.uk/commentisfree/2011/jul/15/local-news-reporters-journalism-crisis">this</a> well-meaning article which further down reveals the hatred of the keyboard warriors, who, (quelle surprise) rarely use their real names when they comment. Much like our own 'popular' website, hmm?<br />Oh, I can handle the jokes from my plod contacts about "are you recording this call Carl?" or "Oi, Eve, have you got a brown envelope with cash for me?"<br />Mainly because my retort of "I dunno, have you been out <a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-13268633">killing my paper sellers recently</a>" usually halts all hostilities in their tracks.<br />The thing is, it's all about ethics. And no, that's not a lisp for my home county.<br />I was taught journalism with a heavy nod towards the ethics line. I worked on a paper where the news editor was a mean bugger who would swear and shout at his reporters until they cried, but by God he instilled a sense of ethics in you.<br />If you want to do the job right and get a result you can stand by, then you bloody well behave yourself. However if you are uncovering proper wrong-doing or actual iniquity then and only then can you take the gloves off and fight dirty.<br />In Essex, I watched as a number of reporter colleagues move onto tabloids like The Sun and the News of the World (and the Daily Mail) and I felt a) sorry for them, b) envious of their new wage and c) absolutely no desire to follow them. (Quick aside - Andy Coulson used to work on my old paper in Basildon, but he left a couple of years before I joined. I know, six degrees of separation, eh?)<br />This paper is equally tight on its ethics. There are strict rules and Cliff Richard forbid you play fast and loose with them. No impersonating, no bin rifling, no breaching confidence.<br />Of course, it means we don't get or do some stories. Like all papers you try to get as close to the wire as possible, but you cannot afford to go over it. Not when the margins are so tight as they are these days.<br />I <a href="http://www.echo-news.co.uk/archive/2001/06/28/Essex+Archive/5487852.Tilbury__Danielle_hunt_goes_national/">wrote</a> about the Danielle Jones murder in Grays, Essex and recently heard her phone may have been <a href="http://www.independent.co.uk/news/media/press/another-murder-case-linked-to-illegal-phone-hacking-2308184.html">hacked</a>. I remember her parents. I remember a senior police officer genuinely lament that he had been forced to meet such wonderful people in such an awful circumstance. I would concur completely as Danielle's parents were lovely people who, more often than not, I just wanted to hug tightly and make it all better for them.<br />If true, then the news about Danielle's phone being a potential target reminds me again of how it was just another cheap and unenlightening story for a paper to swagger about boasting it was the "Greatest Newspaper in the World" with its gargantuan sales figures and 168 year history of paying people to tell them things.<br />Quick note here - my "payments" to informants? A cup of tea. That's it. Probably at Capn Jaspers and the change goes into the charity Sea Mission box. If I have a spare tenner or twenty it goes to me and my family. My motto is if you have to pay for it, you don't deserve it because you're not a good enough journalist. Just because a source is greedy doesn't mean you should be.<br />Ratings and sales should not be at the expense of breaking the confidence of the parents of dead children.<br />I hope that, in the main, the interviews I've had with people who would've otherwise have been snapped up by tabloid hacks with chequebooks, were because they trusted me to not dick them over.Carl Evehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03930750600999601721noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1621615767238069849.post-16146757851030595372011-07-11T00:31:00.000-07:002011-07-11T00:43:36.418-07:00<span style="font-size:180%;color:#66ff99;"><a href="http://notlocalcarleve.blogspot.com/2011/07/hi-hooooooo-hi-hooooooo.html">Hi Hooooooo, Hi Hooooooo...</a> </span><br /><br />Now, stop me if I lose you on this, but as peaceful chants go, shouting “Allah is a paedo” through a loudhailer with the same charming phrase taken up by around 100 of your mates… well, it’s not one which would readily come to mind.<br /><br />But that’s just me, eh? A soft liberal communist wet who’s blinded by Islamic brainwashing techniques, clearly.<br /><br />“I’m England Til I Die” is confusing. English, well yes, unless you emigrate and take up another nationality. But “England”? I don’t think that works as patriotic chants go. It doesn’t really translate that well. I mean, could you imagine someone shouting “I’m United Arab Emirates Til I Die” or “I’m Democratic Republic of Congo Til I Die”?<br /><br />As for “Who the F*** Is Allah?” I would hazard a guess the question in rhetorical. Otherwise such an inquiry while on a march to highlight your concerns of Islamic extremists would suggest you should first read a book. Possibly all the way through and ideally one without pictures.<br />My personal feeling is the quality of the chants and banners belonging to the EDL were rather tepid to be honest.<br /><br />Whereas the three delightful young girls who repeatedly and loudly shouted “Love Peace and Cupcakes” which was echoed on the colourful and arty banner hung out their first floor window in Southside Street? That was bloody marvelous and easily the best, most decent, thoughtful and educational retort of the day. Certainly better than any counter-rally, to be honest.<br /><br />I later found that the brave youngsters had also used orange chalk to write “All You Need Is Love” on the kerbstones outside their home, which was tramped on by the EDL came to town.<br /><br />Oh all right, I say came to town, only because saying “arrived in town, drank all morning at a pub and walked around some of the best parts of the city dragging their knuckles along the ground behind them while they shouted, swore and grunted” could be constituted as unfair and unwittingly hurt their feelings.<br /><br />I must say I did feel a little inadequate about my own Englishness when I returned to the office on Saturday, but I think that was the EDL’s main aim.<br /><br />While I listened intently to a Scouser bellow -nay screech - into a loudhailer that “We’re not fascists. We’re English and we’re proud to be English” I did find myself thinking “Well, I’m English, and I’m proud to be English and I’ve travelled a lot of the world meeting other nationalities in their countries, and I’ve tried to behave in a manner which would leave them to think ‘oooh, those English people are polite and helpful aren’t they, they’re a credit to their parents and their country’ but clearly I’m not proud of my Englishness enough because I haven’t got any tattoos of bulldogs, Union Jacks, Thai and Maori symbols or my ex-girlfriend’s name on my body, don’t want to march through the Barbican eliciting tuts and looks of worry from tourists and locals and have never suggested that the “UAF [Unite Against Fascism] can f***in’ ‘ave it” while waving a flag of St George with the words “EDL Geert Wilders” on it.<br /><br />But that’s just me, eh? A soft liberal communist wet who’s blinded by Islamic brainwashing techniques, clearly.<br /><br />As the EDL marchers headed off back to the pub, they were tunefully sent on their way by singers banging out a Christian hip-hop-pop tune as part of the multicultural diversty celebrations organized by the All Nation Ministries which was being held on the Hoe.<br /><br />The pumping beats could be heard all the way down Exeter Street, over the sounds of clip-clopping police horses, more chants and the words of a kindly elderly lady I met along the way.<br /><br />“It’s despicable,” she said of the marchers and their hollering. “It doesn’t look good for Plymouth and I bet half of them aren’t even from here. And all those officers having to escort them, it’s such a waste isn’t it? But I suppose if anything went wrong they’d not hear the end of it. I can’t imagine they [the officers]want to be doing this either.”<br /><br />From the looks on a lot of the 400 plods faces, I can’t imagine they’d disagree.Carl Evehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03930750600999601721noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1621615767238069849.post-20502206988655486942011-07-04T08:38:00.000-07:002011-07-04T09:02:09.356-07:00<span style="font-size:85%;">Saturday, June 11, 2011<br /></span><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:180%;color:#66ff99;"><a href="http://notlocalcarleve.blogspot.com/2011/07/saturday-june-11-2011-and-i-still.html">And I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For...</a><br /></span><br /><br />Yeah Gods, but the changes at Devon and Cornwall Police are getting on my wick!<br />As many of the plods have (<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">mis</span>)quoted back to me, the bods at <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Middlemoor</span> in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Exeter</span> were very much hoping the public didn't notice the changes from <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">B'day</span> (Blueprint Day - not exactly Judgment Day a la Arnie Terminator, but not far off for some boys and girls in blue). And to be honest, you haven't.<br /><br />Yet.<br /><br /><br /><br />I mean, you may never really notice, unless you have regular dealings with plod.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />For instance, there is no traffic unit anymore. That's not to say there isn't anyone policing the avenues and alleyways, or highways and byways. It's just that traffic is effectively made up of response and patrol units, and the armed response units and a couple of other units who, while dealing with the day to day 999 incidents, are also doing the work which was once the sole preserve of traffic units.<br /><br /><br />So, let's just say that if the list of critical incidents, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">mispers</span>, violent domestics, allegations of rape, assaults and the like all got a bit busy for a day, then perhaps it'd be a bit of a stretch to also patrol the A38 for those naughty drivers who like to do a bit over the limit, or do it drunk, or just drive like Stevie Wonder.<br /><br /><br />Needless to say, there are ugly rumours around of Devon and Cornwall's thin blue line appearing as underweight as a Size Zero supermodel.<br /><br /><br />The only way to see if there's any <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">noticable</span> difference is by comparing this month's figures for crimes, detections, fixed penalty notices, etc, with this month last year. I'll let you know.<br /><br /><br />For my part, it's a pain in the chocolate starfish as there are no geographical CID offices anymore. In the past, if I heard of a mugging in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Devonport</span>, I'd call <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Devonport</span> & West CID. If there was a indecent exposure in the city centre I'd call South and Central CID. If there was a donkey sexually abused in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Plympton</span> I'd call North and East CID (but only after calling my mates back in Essex and saying "I told you it was true about the donkey-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">touchers</span> down here!")<br />But now there's just two CID offices. One at Charles Cross, one at <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Crownhill</span>. They house the teams who are set in five sections. Each section - A to E - have five sub-sections. They deal with offences covering Plymouth, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">Saltash</span>, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">Ivybridge</span>, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">Tavistock</span>, bits of South Hams, bits of South East Cornwall and everything in between.<br /><br /><br />So, who I phone to ask for more information is a bit of a lottery. It took me an hour last week to find an officer dealing with the vandalism of a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">Plympton</span> school which saw thugs kill two chickens - rumoured to be called <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">Tikka</span> and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">Masala</span>. An hour of call after call, just to find out more information and do an appeal.<br /><br /><br />But that's not the best bit. Well, there isn't a best bit to be honest, but this I really loved because for me it encapsulates the wonders of how big organisations often forget how the little things matter.<br /><br /><br />Plod loves its acronyms. I mean it <em>really</em> loves them. You could go half an hour talking to some officers and not hear a whole word with four syllables.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">MCIT</span>, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">SOCIT</span>, ARV, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">BCU</span>, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20">Pc</span>, SOLO, FLO... gorgeous, aren't they?<br /><br /><br /><br />The most well-known has got to be CID, which is, as everyone who watches TV <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_21">copshows</span> well knows, is the Crime Investigation Department.<br /><br /><br />Which, in their undoubted wisdom, the bods at <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_22">Middlemoor</span> have renamed... wait for it... <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_23">LITs</span>.<br /><br /><br />Local Investigation Teams.<br />Geddit?<br /><br /><br />Only - as one female detective pointed out to me - in Plymouth, we have two <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_24">LITs</span>... one in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_25">Crownhill</span> and one in Charles Cross.<br /><br /><br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_26">Crownhill</span> Local Investigation Team.<br /><br /><br />Charles Cross Local Investigation Team.<br /><br /><br />*ahem*<br /><br /><br />Nope.<br /><br /><br />No, seriously, I'm not kidding.<br /><br /><br />Honestly, would I lie to you?<br /><br /><br />*cough, cough*<br /><br /><br />And yes, I have asked the question.<br /><br /><br /><br />Apparently a few of the male detectives haven't turned up for work yet because they can't find their new offices.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_27">Badum</span>-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_28">tish</span>...<br />Thank you, thank you, you've been a lovely audience, I'm here all week, try the crab buffet.Carl Evehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03930750600999601721noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1621615767238069849.post-32341137462738410032011-05-17T01:57:00.000-07:002011-05-17T01:57:07.296-07:00“WHOOP-WHOOP – it’s da sound of da police” (if you can hear it over the sound of gnashing teeth)IN A few days time there's going to be a bit of a kerfuffle with the police. They hope you don't notice anything. <br />
<br />
In fact, they're counting on it. <br />
<br />
The amusingly nicknamed "B'day" will be happening on May 20 and will see the implementation of the Blueprint project. Which is a nice PR way of saying "today we implement the changes which we've been forced to do because the government has cut our budget so much we can now only afford a "nee" when we turn on the siren (meaning "nee-naa" - and for those amongst you who claim police actually only use the US woo-woo-woo sirens, you are the very definition of pedants).<br />
<br />
Basically, they've taken what they've got, looked at the finances and said "how do we police with only this much money?" They've then fired civilian investigators, front counter staff, back room civvies and others, told older coppers who've done 30 years to sling their hooks, closed front counters - and probably will be closing small stations altogether - rejigged patrol, response and CID departments, turned the thermostat down, ordered tellys to be turned off as they're not licensed anymore, and cut back on the biscuits. The awfully flash cars belonging to the very senior officers in Middlemore are still there though... even the one's being broken into by thieves while they are left "insecure" outside the Chief Constable's home.<br />
<br />
The structure of the police world in Devon and Cornwall will see a seismic shift on B'day. No gradual introduction, no trialing, no testing the water. <br />
<br />
New shift rotas, rearranged section teams, new CID units covering much larger (much, much larger) patches, longer hours and new responsibilities for late shift detectives, additional roles for dog handlers, traffic cops and armed response, new prioritisation on crime and non-crime incidents - they'll all take place as of that day. <br />
<br />
With less coppers, natch.<br />
<br />
Okay, for a great number of you filth-haters, it's no bad thing. "They'll have to work for a living" some will say (invariably those who think a morning's work is watching more chav baiting on Jeremy Kyle).<br />
<br />
There is undoubtedly something heartwarming in hearing a copper moan that they've now been posted to the back of beyond and due to police regulations they will have to drive 30 miles - yes, 30 whole miles - to get to their new place of work. <br />
<br />
When I've cheekily replied I was travelling around 50 miles every morning when I was 16 to get to work on a train packed with other commuters, and I considered it just part and parcel of needing a bleedin' job, it has gone down like a turkey twizzler at Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall's proposed Plymouth deli. But, welcoming public servants to the often harsher world of the private enterprise is a gleeful job, all the same.<br />
<br />
However, before you all gloat, keep in mind this. Less cops, stretched much thinner, attempting to do the same work as before, but demoralised, angry, fed-up, taking on-going flak from the government and its endless reviews and inquiries over their pensions from the likes of Lord Hutton (remember him, the guy who claimed the BBC had over-egged the suggestion that the 45-minute bombs-from-Iraq claim was rubbish?) and Tom Winsor who scrutinised their pay and conditions – well, I hardly need tell you it doesn't make for a bunch of laughing policemen. <br />
<br />
In fact, it makes for very unhappy policemen, very unhappy indeed.<br />
<br />
And, let’s be honest, unhappy policemen are a pain in the backside. <br />
<br />
I mean, I've been tracking them for more than a decade as a reporter, and bigger moaners you'd be hard to find. <br />
<br />
Admittedly, unlike most of us, their customer base are the kind of people you want to moan about. <br />
<br />
I think I'd also get a bit despondent and suffer a sense of ennui after a week of listening to the like of Tyson and his on-off-on-off bird Chantelle and their endless whinging about who's threatened to batter who on Facebook and whether their neighbour should be done over because they "grassed" on them about beating their kids Chardonnay and Reese and leaving their pit-bull Hercules to crap on every square inch of the pavement.<br />
<br />
The proof of the smaller and less appetizing pudding, I think, will be in the amount of crimes solved next year. I'm putting my £1 bet down now with the bookies that the detection rate next year will see a marked drop, and the year after. <br />
<br />
And when the new Police Commissioners are planted, the Home Office will be able to hold up their hands and say “nothing to do with us anymore Guv, you’ve elected a new Commish, it’s their fault, blame them”. Which is an awfully deft bit of political hand-washing, I must say. <br />
<br />
However, the figures won’t look bad for too long. Only until the government comes up with a plan to rejig the Home Office figures and police get the go ahead to screen out certain incidents so they don't appear on the books. <br />
<br />
Remember, if you can't lose enough weight, just fiddle with the scales until it looks like you have.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1621615767238069849.post-30913568397153824042011-03-28T00:29:00.000-07:002011-03-28T00:29:05.785-07:00The first cut is the deepest... unless it's a paper cut, of courseWell, here we all are again. And wouldn't you know it I've been lolly gaggling again and have not put pen to paper for far too long. <br />
<br />
My apologies, but it's been a busy few of months. <br />
<br />
Look, three young boys multiplied by Christmas is as busy as it needs to get. But there's been other fun and frolics to contend with as well, so don't you start giving me a hard time as well you cheeky little munchkins. <br />
<br />
I hardly need point out the last couple of blogs had more of an effect than I could have ever realised. Mostly good, but a few not-so-good ones. <br />
<br />
Whereas I was very much touched to have the "and the beat goes on" story printed in The Herald in its entirety (yes, including the F-word put in but asterisked out, which I've been well informed is an absolute first!) but I was honoured - and hugely embarrassed - to be given a Commander's commendation from the local bobbies. <br />
<br />
Very nice and all, but a) I didn't really do that much except read it out to be recorded for the cops to use for their presentations about the Operation Encompass domestic abuse scheme and b) a lot of other people do a hell of a lot more and don't get any recognition. <br />
<br />
But hey, the certificate has taken it's place in the pantheon of my achievements and exploits in the hallowed halls of Chez Eve (the downstairs bog, which has our shoes, coats, my reporter awards, pics of my travels in India and Nepal and pictures of me DJing over the years). <br />
<br />
Yes, come along, relieve yourself and marvel at my exploits... Try to hit the bowl while you linger though... <br />
<br />
So, the cuts are indeed starting to cut deep with all manner of complaints from those in the public sector, from nurses, teachers, cops and council workers to soldiers and sailors (although with a new war on, you'd think cutting the armed services wasn't the smartest move top make. Ho hum, perhaps we can make up for it by selling a couple of our warships. I hear there's a colonel in Libya who may be in the market for one or two items.)<br />
<br />
You'll probably notice that even the bankers have even been moaning, but only because the great unwashed have had the temerity to keep on voicing concerns about their telephone-number bonuses and the utter front to remind the city-slickers that we were the ones who bailed them out.<br />
<br />
Needless to say, the words "tax avoidance" are two words you won't hear much in Number 11 Downing Street in the near future, especially if they're joined by the two words "big business", "property developers" or "party donors". <br />
<br />
"Benefit cheats"... oh, I'm quite sure you'll be hearing those two words rather a lot in the coming months. And for those of you who mischievously add "illegal immigrants" or "bloody students", you'll find I also have two words for you - (probably not "Daily Mail" if your wondering...) <br />
<br />
Speaking of dodgy financial deals, you have to feel sorry for the folk of Plymouth Argyle. Well, I mean the staff anyway. It's hard to feel sorry for players who kick a ball about for fun and get paid the British average annual salary every three months while shifting a wannabe glamour model. <br />
<br />
As for the fans, it's like watching a dog return to its master after once again having been given a sound thrashing. Forlorn, obedient and hopeful, it shuffles back with that soft, doleful and sorry look in its eyes, wanting so bad to have a master who won't hurt it so, but instead will cherish, nay, even love it...<br />
<br />
But no, once again, the master insists on using it like both metaphorically and physically as little more than a doormat, something to roughly wipe one's muddy boots on before going into the house for a nice G & T, some fois gras on little corners of toast and a delightful conversation with one's friends about the drainage in the lower field and whether the restoration of the west wing will be completed in time for the cricket season.<br />
<br />
(I was thinking of using a metaphor of a barrel, a jar of lube and an Argyle support in a prone position with someone shouting "brace yourself", but frankly that's unfair, and anyway, we've already seen too much of that in recent weeks.)<br />
<br />
Meanwhile, I would hazard a guess that somewhere out there, there's an Argyle supporter who's seriously thinking about purchasing a high-powered rifle with telescopic sights and keeps listening to I Don't Like Mondays by the Boomtown Rats on a daily basis, but a) there's not a tower over the director's box at Home Park, b) they're probably in the minority of zero, c) they'd more likely be into Cheryl Cole or Tinie Tempah and d) there's still a small part of their heart and mind which cries out every night as they slip into fitful dreams: "maybe, just maybe, either I'll win the Euro-lottery and can buy Home Park with money left over to buy back Holloway and half of Chelsea, or Plymouth City Council will strike oil while digging out North Prospect and we'll be richer than Arab princes... but not the one's who're opposing democracy in Saudi..."<br />
<br />
Ah, but "we are such stuff as dreams are made of..." Shakespeare. <br />
<br />
(He also wrote of wives: "To suckle fools, and chronicle small beer", although I think he was predicting football in general to be honest).Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1621615767238069849.post-60427041820910108362010-12-21T23:45:00.001-08:002010-12-22T03:44:46.002-08:00The 12 inch remix of "And the beat goes on" is also not just a groovy disco tune...Well, my last blog turned up some interesting results. One such revelation to me was that anyone bothered to read the bleedin' thing it. Secondly, that not only do some read it, but respond, either online or send me texts or phone me as a result. <br />
I don't take praise well and to be honest, it wasn't written with anything other than admiration for those who do deal with domestic abuse, either as victims or those who are helping said victims. <br />
Basically, it's my past, I have to deal with it as best. <br />
<br />
My only concern came about after the response to this article: <a href="http://www.thisisplymouth.co.uk/news/Objectors-fail-stop-plan-abuse-refuge/article-3024923-detail/article.html">http://www.thisisplymouth.co.uk/news/Objectors-fail-stop-plan-abuse-refuge/article-3024923-detail/article.html</a> which made me think whether I should've coughed up to my past and my opinions.<br />
<br />
Now, as a reporter, I have to try and be without bias. That's the rules. Being a human being [no really, I am], that's not always easily achievable. Some of the comment responses were expected [yes, yours Mick, I could predict pretty easily, you little ray of eternal sunshine you]. <br />
<br />
I made what I thought was a sensible decision to not put in the address of the new refuge. By law, the planning committee have to know the location of any planning application and by law, all planning applications have to be made public. <br />
Which in this case is a bit awkward, to say the least. <br />
I made a point of warning the council, the Plymouth Domestic Abuse Service and the applicants that I was writing an article - which is in the public interest to know about and clearly has a lot of interest to the residents, certain councillors and other parties such as the various groups and charities involved - and that as a result of the article a bit of digging would result in the planning application being found by anyone who went looking. <br />
My decision was to say it was in the city, was in a quiet area which included cul-de-sacs (a point emphasised by the concerned residents) and was to be at an ex-council depot (ie a brownfield site, not a greenfield site, and also important because of the amount of police call outs to the current refuge by comparison to the current disused council depot, also important in the arguments put forward by both the residents and the council officers)<br />
If I put in too little or didn't write it at all, I could be accused of ignoring the residents fears, if I wrote it but put in too much information I would be revealing the location. I hoped to have found a balance, and having warned the authorities, hoped something could be done to avoid the Googlers in the reading audience. They can't remove or redact it because basically, that's the law. Frankly, either way, I knew I'd lose. <br />
<br />
I'll side-step the catch 22 situation I found myself in for the mo' by highlighting this case which has recently come to light. <a href="http://www.sussexexpress.co.uk/news/abuse_awareness_training_call_for_magistrates_after_murder_1_2200144">http://www.sussexexpress.co.uk/news/abuse_awareness_training_call_for_magistrates_after_murder_1_2200144</a><br />
The Karen Brookes story highlights what I was getting at on this blog the other week, in that everyone needs to recognise why this stuff is important. Recognition of what can happen when it's all-too-often poo-poohed as "oh, just another domestic". <br />
<br />
Following my last blog post I had a conversation with a former senior police officer about the William Goad paedophile case and stressed how there were hundreds, possible even into a thousand or more young men in and around Plymouth who are still dealing with the childhood trauma of sexual abuse. Here's the parallel. Very often domestic abuse is seen in the light of "husband hits wife, wife calls police, police turn up, wife fails to make statement, police go away, husband hits wife, wife calls police... " ad infinitum. The bit that's forgotten is "child in room watches father hit mother, child sees police officers turn up (who, when you're a kid, are bloody scary), child sees police officers finally leave (with a confused mixture of relief and ominous fear) and child is left to deal with it in their own confused little head. <br />
On the plus side, hopefully next month, I'm going to be able to tell you a truly wonderful story about a police officer who is hoping to tackle this very horrible scenario with a corking idea. <br />
<br />
Meanwhile, for those of you who think domestic abuse only affects a certain class of woman, the 'lower orders', those who work 'downstairs', who can't countenance that proper, decent, law-abiding, well-educated people in good jobs need worry about this sort of criminal practice. <br />
<br />
This was the awful case I covered back in Basildon. Here's the inquest <a href="http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/england/1641255.stm">http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/england/1641255.stm</a> and story of the history of domestic violence which went on for years <a href="http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-69653/The-parents-war.html">http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-69653/The-parents-war.html</a>. (Yeah, sorry, I've actually done a link to the Daily Mail... only because I can't find a link to my stories in my old paper).<br />
<br />
Jill was well regarded and well respected by senior members of the council. The Chief Executive at the time even told me he had her pegged to be a future Chief Executive herself in the near future, she was that good at her job. Her husband was considered a pillar of the community, even though it later transpired his colleagues were aware of his questionable and arrestable home life habits. A former council leader at the authority admitted off-the-record to me they and others suspected Jill was being assaulted, but they weren't sure, didn't know what to do and she would always explain it away. <br />
<br />
After her murder, staff at the Basildon Women's Aid/Refuge ended up being invited into the council to give them advice and guidance in how to deal with people they suspected were victims of domestic abuse. Then the local magistrates asked them to give them advice as well. Then the local police. Then local schools (even primary schools) and then other organisations in and around Basildon, then other parts of Essex and even outside of Essex. Needless to say, I was well impressed with the awesome work the local refuge were doing and still do, but bloody hell, it was such a cost to get some people's arses in gear and get them to finally listen.<br />
<br />
Scary fact to leave you with, one which I never tire of stating, and never stop wishing it would change to a smaller figure. Since being a reporter, which currently is at 13 years and counting, this figure has remained pretty static. According to Home Office statistics, every week, on average, in England and Wales, two women are killed by a partner or former partner. <br />
<br />
Every week.<br />
<br />
Sometimes that figures gets added to with men, but far more often, with children. Sometimes it's a baby, lying in a cot, repeatedly hit with a claw hammer after their three-year-old brother and mother has been slaughtered in front of their slightly older brother and sister. <br />
<br />
Have a ponder the next time you hear someone say it's "just a domestic" or that a new refuge in a relatively quiet bit of Plymouth is more trouble than it's worth...Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1621615767238069849.post-17870410836962792282010-12-07T03:01:00.001-08:002010-12-07T03:01:18.821-08:00"And the beat goes on" isn't just a groovy disco tune.So, Domestic Abuse Awareness Weeks has been and gone and I didn't really write anything for my patch. <br />
<br />
I say this as every year I try to do something to highlight the issue. But as I (repeatedly) say to my contacts in this field, particularly the Plymouth Domestic Abuse Service, "domestic abuse isn't just for domestic abuse awareness week". <br />
<br />
No-one seems to get my joke, mainly because I say it through clenched teeth. In my old patch of Basildon, I'd be down at the Women's Refuge, chatting with the manager, staff and current guests about how they are, what they need, what they're planning, who they're teaching about DV and how it needs to be countered, which court cases I need to know about and which bigot in the council is trying to give them a hard time. <br />
<br />
Here? I'm person non grata, being a) a man and b) a bloody journalist. A combination which assures the view that I'm not to be trusted. So I don't write as many stories about DV as I'd like.<br />
<br />
The irony for me being the Basildon Women's Aid group had me tagged from the first second. The manager there and outreach workers (most of whom were 'survivors' themselves) sussed my background before I'd opened my big gob. <br />
<br />
I still recall hearing my mum's screams. I recall her black eyes, split lip, her fear as the door went and Dad'd come home in one of "those moods" which meant we should all run for cover unless we wanted a piece. <br />
<br />
I can't find any pleasure in playing with Matchbox toys because the metre long track, usually orange, but occasionally the more stiff and unyielding yellow tracks, were not something of fun for me and my brothers. Kept on a little ledge above the fridge, we'd know that if Dad headed towards it, we'd be nursing welts for the rest of the night. I remember almost proudly being able to breathe through an ear after receiving a clout around the ear. I say clout, but that's rather a quaint old fashioned description. I was playing cricket with a tennis ball with my friend in our garden. The ball hit our back outhouse. Nothing broke, but I was hit around the ear so hard I couldn't hear the rest of the day and found if I held my nose I could push air out my ear. Strange really. <br />
<br />
I had a regular nightmare (at least once a week for several years) of a steaming monster racing up the stairs if I dared venture out of the bedroom to go to the toilet. Only years later I clicked it was about my Dad who, if you heard him stomping up the stairs because me and my younger brother made a noise at night we'd cop a walloping. I remember lying in bed one night, listening to him getting hit and hit and hit, screaming "no, no, no" thinking to myself "if I call out, tell him to stop, I'll get it too" and hating myself for being a coward. <br />
<br />
I got the same feeling of cowardice when I'd hear my mum, in the next room at night, making the same pointless appeal. She'd cry out, begging him to stop. I'd lie there, feeling sick, wondering how breakfast time would be, and whether school would be a kind of freedom.<br />
<br />
Like I said, it's hearing your mum's screams which I'll recall for a long while yet.<br />
<br />
This went on for years. I didn't even know it was wrong for a lot of it. I do recall sitting on my bed, in the room I shared with my younger brother. I was about 10, sitting there sobbing after being hit several times. Mum, who'd tried to protect me before I ran, came in and was sitting next to me, also in tears. She'd been hit after she'd stood between me and Dad. She sat, I sat, both crying. I eventually asked her in all sincerity "why can't we just leave him". She hugged me closer and after a long pause said: "where can we go? There's nowhere we can go... I'm sorry". <br />
<br />
Here's the thing. I know full well it's all relative and I got off very very light. Since becoming a reporter I've made it a kind of point to do stories on domestic violence, or to give it it's current name, domestic abuse. I've heard far, far worse straight from the horses mouth as it were, cases in court, or from officers who've attended scenes. Some will make your jaw drop and shake your head. Like the one where the wife is kicked on the ground for daring to answer back, and then the guy got his seven-year-old son to keep kicking mum, so he learned that "that's what you do to a woman who answers you back". <br />
<br />
One or two have made me well up, particularly when it's kids because I think back to the fear you feel, all the bloody time. The dread you feel on your way home from school, dawdling so you don't get home early, hoping he'll come home in a good mood or there will be Morecombe and Wise or Les Dawson on telly so he'll laugh in his chair, and we can watch and laugh and we can sit and act like a normal family for half an hour. <br />
<br />
I had one of those moments today. I've heard this woman's story from a couple of other people in Plymouth. It was only a few seconds of conversation. I don't know her name. I was with Kerry Whincup, the co-ordinator for the Plymouth SEEDS (Survivors Empowering and Educating Domestic Abuse Services) for a meeting. Round table, different ages of women, different styles of hair, different outfits, different stories. <br />
She'd come back in after a ciggie and a wee. <br />
<br />
She'd left an 11 year relationship on New Years Day. She'd suffered lots of beatings. "After 11 years you leave with what you stand up in". She has two children. To get at her, to make her suffer, he took a pair of pliers to the children's teeth. <br />
<br />
He's dead now, and - I am not surprised - she is pretty happy about that. <br />
<br />
"You get so used to the daily beatings and everything which goes with it. I didn't even know what a Refuge was..."<br />
<br />
I've thought for a while about writing this. About some of my past, why I want to write stories about domestic abuse, why I keep banging my head against some organisations to ensure the message gets out not just one week a year, but as many times as possible. <br />
<br />
Meeting her today made my mind up. So bloody brave... and now joined with other victims (okay, survivors for the PC brigade) to help other women, to educate the authorities, the police, the magistrates, the judges, the lawyers, the councillors, the public about why it's so damned important that this - domestic abuse, domestic violence, 'another bloody domestic' as jaded cops sometimes say - should be dealt with, taken seriously, acted upon, spoken about out loud. <br />
<br />
Pliers. <br />
<br />
I f***ing ask you! Pliers! <br />
<br />
And you know the worst thing?<br />
<br />
That's not even the worst story I've heard so far, after 13 years as a reporter. Not by a mile. But it still makes me go very, very cold inside. <br />
<br />
And also reminds me to call my mum and tell her that I love her because she took a lot of punches for me. So bloody brave...Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1621615767238069849.post-13300818265086846942010-09-22T04:21:00.000-07:002010-09-22T04:21:09.893-07:00Beware of Plymouth scorned...I've been doing a bit of reading recently and by chance it's been a lot of history material. Primo Levi's account of his time in concentration camps as well as John Van Der Kiste's history book on Plymouth have been on the go the most. <br />
<br />
In many ways, both books confirm for me my dislike of people who acquire or seize power and then wield it very badly indeed. (We've all met them, haven't we. Usually at work, which makes for a right laugh between the hours of 9am and 5pm every bleedin' day of the week, eh?) <br />
<br />
For instance, in the spring of 1596 an expedition (read raiding party) was put together by Sir Walter Raleigh, a nephew of Drake, in concert with the Earl of Essex, Lord High Admiral Howard and Sir Thomas Howard. According to Van Der Kiste's book they gathered four squadrons, twenty-four Dutch ships and nearly 150 ships. <br />
"To muster a sufficient force of men the press gangs went round the town [of Plymouth], and Essex executed several conscripted landlubbers on the Hoe who tried to escape, as an example to others"<br />
<br />
Charming, eh?<br />
<br />
Earl of Essex: 'You there! Yes you - the oik with the facial boils and rickets... get on board that boat and do as I say so I can earn a shed-load of money pillaging foreigners while I eat like the fat pig I am in the safety of a spacious cabin at the back of the vessel'<br />
<br />
Plymouth Oik: "How about you lick my left testicle mate, I've got proper work to do sorting through all this cow shite to find something of value for the wife and seven kids."<br />
<br />
Earl of Essex: "How dare you disobey me? Master at Arms? <br />
<br />
Master at Arms: "Sah!"<br />
<br />
Earl of Essex: "Have this man's giblets and spleen ripped out and boil what remains in oil as a warning to others..."<br />
<br />
Plymouth Oik, muttering: "Just you wait until Cromwell comes along... you'll get yours sunshine... aaaaaaarrrrrrrrggghhh, my giblets!"<br />
<br />
<br />
Needless to say, it's no great surprise that along came the civil war and unlike a lot of neighbouring towns Plymouth actually bucked the trend and sided with the Parliamentarians. Various mistreatments of Plymouth by King James and then the "hapless King Charles" [as described by Van Der Kiste] resulted in the Royalists taking it for granted the oiky Plymothians would be a walkover. Oops. <br />
I do like the bit about when Oliver Cromwell and General Sir Thomas Fairfax arrived in Plymouth as the Civil War ended they received a 300-gun salute. Not even the Queen Mum ever got that.<br />
<br />
However, I particularly found this section illuminating for a number of reasons: "Charles II's main purpose in building the Citadel was ostensibly because he recognise the strategic importance of Plymouth as a coastal town when it came to war on England's enemies. A belief persisted for many years that he had taken ill its unfriendly attitude towards his father and therefore sought some kind of revenge, or at least wished to 'overawe' the town as well as foes across the Channel, though there is little evidence to support this view. <br />
"The only argument to advance such an idea is a passage from the writings of Cosmo de Medici III, Grand Duke of Tuscany, who visited the King's court in 1669 and visited Plymouth the same year. In it he referred to the Citadel 'which the King built to be a check on the inhabitants who showed themselves on a former occasion to be open to sedition'."<br />
According to Van Der Kiste's book, the construction of the Citadel began in 1666, designed by Sir Bernard de Gomme, the King's Engineer General. He writes: "Cannon were set both facing out to sea and into the town, a reminder to residents not to oppose the Crown."<br />
<br />
How great it that? The Establishment was as afraid of the residents of Plymouth as they were of warring foreign nations who were itching to invade and take England's spoils! Can there be any greater accolade for the residents of Plymouth?<br />
<br />
Can you imagine a modern equivalent? <br />
<br />
Cameron: "Right, when 29 Commandos get back from their latest tour of the Afghanistan, I want them sited along Union Street and Mutley Plain..."<br />
<br />
Flunkey: "Prime Minister... are you sure?"<br />
<br />
Cameron: "Am I sure? Have you BEEN down there on a Friday night? Frankly, the war on Terror would have been over within a Bank Holiday Weekend if we'd risked setting down four tanked up Swilly boys in the middle of Helmand province and told them 'see that lot over there, the ones with towels on their heads and CIA-approved Stinger missiles on their back... they shagged your mum last night and she loved it..."<br />
<br />
Which brings me to my final point... probably my only point really. With regard to Devonport, the much feared move of the Royal Navy's historical home and the Herald's campaign to get the new Government fully aware of how much Plymouth people are justifiably sick to the back teeth of being shafted time after time after time. <br />
<br />
And my point to MPs (at home and in London... yes, you Alison, because over the past decade your party didn't come out with flying colours as far as Plymouth is concerned and you Oliver because it won't go well for your party if they choose to do the dirty on the city yet again) is this: <br />
<br />
Don't mess with Plymouth... because - historically speaking - you really do run the risk of Plymouth messing with you.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1621615767238069849.post-36014110610192218512010-07-13T11:58:00.001-07:002010-07-14T03:42:33.885-07:00"Not telling you, nah nah nyah, nah, thrrrppp!"Occasionally, I get asked by Devon and Cornwall police's press office to travel up to the force headquarters at Middlemoor, in Exeter, to chat to newly formed Detectives Constables.<br />
<br />
Sometimes they're even Detective Sergeants, which means more paperwork, more responsibility and an well-established level of cynicism about the media who they affectionately refer to as "the scum".<br />
<br />
Of course, they're rather taken aback when I remind them of their affectionate term for me as I walk in the door and are confronted by about 20 of them sitting in a semi-circle, noting that I too have an affectionate term for them and it's "the filth".<br />
<br />
As a stand-up audience, they're a pretty tough crowd, I can assure you. I only thank Parliament we don't have a fully armed police force or I'd be dead by now.<br />
<br />
(Quick aside: It’s funny how times change. Years ago, if you had a moat round your village, you felt safe...)<br />
<br />
The gist of the short training session is to remind detectives why we reporters badger them every day (to let you know what's going on in your own city), where the law stands in regards to journalists and what we can and can't write (you'd be amazed at how restricted we are), and perhaps finding a way of not treating reporters as you would the stuff you tread in down the local park where the dogs have free reign of the entire field and our children are left with a fenced-in playground.<br />
<br />
Now, I do have a lot of respect for The Plod. It's a thankless task most of the time, they frequently have to deal with the kind of people you wouldn't want to see outside of an episode of Eastenders or Jeremy Kyle and suffer immense daily frustration of seeing crooks, thugs and worse boogie their way around the criminal justice system - on legal aid - to a slap-on-the-wrist and another notch on the "I-got-away-with-it"-engraved baseball bat they keep in the boot of their BMW "for when the Wii's broken".<br />
<br />
Sadly, this means they invariably end up cynical, right-wing, moaning, growling, hard-arsed buggers who consider anyone left of Genghis Khan to be a wishy-washy, wet-liberal, namby-pampy Guardian-reading, feckless, human-rights-wittering bell-end. Which is where I come in through the door. Hello!<br />
<br />
Like I said, tough crowd. Getting them to laugh is a task. Actually, getting them to stop sneering is a task, getting them to laugh is a bit of a bonus.<br />
<br />
My best comeback came after one officer suggested that instead of phoning up police for a story, why didn't I just do what all journalists always do and just make it up?<br />
<br />
"Well, why don't you do what the police always do and just arrest the first person you find, fit them up and say you've sold the case already...", I joshed back<br />
<br />
A lead balloon never was so beaten in the race to the floor by that gag, I can tell you.<br />
<br />
Point is, there's stuff they don't tell me, for a host of reasons - they don't trust anyone in the media, they don't trust anyone outside the police force, they don't trust anyone, it's no-one's business what they are doing, the public don't need to know, what's the point anyway we'll just end up being blamed as we always do for everything, you're only trying to find out something so you can give us a kicking in the newspaper, because that's all newspapers do, moan, moan, moan.<br />
<br />
Did I say tough crowd? Would you be surprised that after a couple of hours of me explaining to them, often using quite inventive swear-words (we'll, it's not like they're going to nick me in the training room is it?) why the public do need to know, why it is worth highlighting an arrest because it's proof of them doing their job (which, as they hate to be reminded of, is what "we" pay "them" for), that it reassures the public that some scrote has had his collar felt and is off the street if only for as long as a magistrate can release them back into the wild again, they realise that yes, yes, they should be telling us what they're doing?<br />
<br />
Well, I'm surprised when it does work, and it has on many occasions where officers call me up having listened to my spiel. But it doesn't always work and on some officers nothing will ever work.<br />
<br />
There's a lot of crime which goes on in Plymouth that I don't know about, there's some I know about but for a variety of reasons can't tell you and there's the stuff I do know and can and do tell you.<br />
<br />
And I'm constantly trying to make sure there's a lot more of the last one than the first two. And that, dear reader (note the singular, not the plural... I'm a realist) is my day to day life as a crime reporter at the glass ship.<br />
<br />
***************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************<br />
<br />
Meanwhile...I found this on a police officer's blog site (not from Plymouth) which I thought you might like to read. You probably can rejig it to where you work as well.<br />
<br />
Police management<br />
<br />
A man in a hot air balloon realised he was lost. He reduced altitude and spotted a woman below.<br />
<br />
He descended a bit more and shouted, "Excuse me, can you help me? I promised a friend I would meet him an hour ago, but I don't know where I am".The woman below replied, "You are in a hot air balloon hovering approximately 30 feet above the ground. You are between 40 and 41 degrees north latitude and between 59 and 60 degrees west longitude".<br />
<br />
"You must be an engineer", said the balloonist."I am" replied the woman, "How did you know?"<br />
<br />
"Well, answered the balloonist, everything you told me is, technically correct, but I have no idea what to make of your information, and the fact is I am still lost. Frankly, you've not been much help so far".<br />
<br />
The woman below responded, "You must be in Police Management"."I am", replied the balloonist, "but how did you know"?<br />
<br />
"Well", said the woman, "you don't know where you are going. You have risen to where you are due to a large quantity of hot air. You made a promise that you have no idea how to keep, and you expect people beneath you to solve your problems. The fact is you are in exactly the same position you were in before we met, but now, somehow, its my fault".Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1621615767238069849.post-32737551784309664602010-05-17T01:40:00.001-07:002010-05-17T01:46:34.849-07:00It's like I've never been awayI know, I know, I know. I've been a lazy good-for-nothing so-and-so and haven't been in touch for a while. Yes, yes, I know, I should've written, I'm sorry, okay?<br /><br />God, you're starting sounding like my mother.<br /><br />Look, I'll go and have a quick look at the papers over the past month and see what's been happening... can't have been much, can it?<br /><br />*mutters, grumbles, ooh have a look at that... 'bigot' eh?... oh, 'eck*<br /><br />Blimey!<br /><br />What a difference a month makes, eh?<br /><br />So, last time we spoke, there was a dour Scotsman in charge of the country and everything was doom, gloom and financial dire straits.<br /><br />But now, if you believe our delightful national press, it's all onwards, upwards and hey, ho, hey ho, it's off to work we all go...<br /><br />Ahahahahahahahahahaaaaaaa!<br /><br />*sigh*<br /><br />*wipes tear of laughter from eye*<br /><br />Sorry 'bout that. Well it's good to know we have a couple of new leaders, only one of which was chosen by his holiness, St Murdoch of the Everlasting Media Empire.<br /><br />Meanwhile, in other news, I was recently at an awards event to praise youngsters in Plympton who had made the new posters for a Stay Safe campaign. The campaign had been organised by two rather dynamic PCSOs who threatened to set me alight with a Zippo if I didn't attend. Lots of positive stuff was said about the efforts being made to keep Plympton off the top-10-most-dangerous-places-to-live chart.<br /><br />While there I was collared by a member of the city's safety partnership who, like many of their partner agencies - particularly those in the city council - reminded me that the fear of crime in Plymouth was mainly, if not solely, down to The Herald's coverage of crime.<br /><br />Basically, their argument goes that everything would be rosy in the city if only I stopped writing those horrible stories about crimes that occur, and my colleagues stopped going to magistrates or crown court and writing about people who got done. Or not, depending on how well the CPS were doing that week...<br /><br />Needless to say, this argument appears well thought out and is clearly scientifically proven.<br /><br />ahem...<br /><br />However, I believe it only works on the basis of certain factors...<br /><br />They are that:<br /><br />a) eveyone in the city can read,<br /><br />b) they read The Herald and nothing else,<br /><br />c) they think that every time there's a crime in Plymouth, no such crime ever occurs anywhere else in the UK,<br /><br />d) there is no other crime in the rest of the UK,<br /><br />e) crime in Plymouth is clearly worse than anywhere else in the UK,<br /><br />f) someone getting assaulted by a drunk chavette in the city centre on a Saturday night means they will get assaulted as they go to post a letter tomorrow morning and every morning for the rest of their lives,<br /><br />g) every time they read about someone being arrested, charged, sent to court and convicted it proves the criminal justice system just doesn't work, and<br /><br />h) the criminal justice system clearly doesn't work because crime - like sexually transmitted diseases - still hasn't gone away.<br /><br />My retort is the same:<br /><br />a) not writing about crime does not make it go away<br /><br />b) the public have a right to know what's going on in its city - both the good and the bad<br /><br />c) if you're only looking for the "bad" stories, they're easy to find<br /><br />d) if you're only looking for the "bad" stories, you'll ignore, miss or skip the "good" ones. Like <a href="http://www.thisisplymouth.co.uk/crime/Student-training-helped-save-life/article-2155780-detail/article.html">this one</a> or <a href="http://www.thisisplymouth.co.uk/news/New-playground-Elburton/article-1948606-detail/article.html">this one</a> which has been busy everyday since, or <a href="http://www.thisisplymouth.co.uk/news/Hello-hello-hello-s-turn-pay-visit/article-2099467-detail/article.html">this </a>which made me smile or <a href="http://beta.thisisplymouth.co.uk/news/Opposition-mounts-waste-incinerator/article-2046885-detail/article.html">this</a> which shows that people in Plymouth aren't apathetic, they just need the right cause to get passionate about.<br /><br />e) <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sisyphus">Sisyphus... </a><br /><br />f) what do you mean you've never heard of him? Dead Greek guy? Ordered to roll a boulder up a hill only to watch it roll back down, and to repeat this throughout eternity?<br /><br />h) yeah, it's an analogy about crime always being around since Abel and Cain and no matter how much police do, it'll always be there.<br /><br />i) okay, so it's not a perfect analogy. Sometimes the boulder is either bigger or smaller and sometimes Sisyphus may be actually causing it to roll down again by being rubbish, or bent or too fluffy, or too much the tough guy.<br /><br />j) alright then, it's like the bloody rain in Plymouth - never-ending, but not so bad if you prepare yourself with a brolly, a raincoat and a pair of wellies. That better?<br /><br />By this stage, the person telling me that the fear of crime is caused by my reports in The Herald is looking at me as if I've just put my John Thomas in their cup of coffee. Even before I've let it go cold.<br /><br />I'd be interested to know what you lot think. (No, not about what I do with other people's coffee... just about whether reading about crimes and appeals for witnesses in the paper means you think we live in a crime-ridden city)<br /><br />Take into account:<br /><br />a) I don't know about every crime in the city,<br /><br />b) I don't write about every one I do know about, and<br /><br />c) I would like to paraphrase Bill Hicks, 'this [Plymouth] is Hobbitown and I am Bilbo Eve, okay? This is a land of fairies and elves, and sailors and people with funny 'ooh-arr' pirate-like accents. You do not have crime like I had crime back in south Essex.'<br /><br />Answers on a boulder please to the usual address.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1621615767238069849.post-7496292757908920062010-03-21T07:49:00.000-07:002010-03-29T07:49:54.982-07:00“Sometimes, I don’t hate it here. You - yes. But here? Not always”Of course, there will be blood. There is always a little bit of aggro, a bit of violence and tragedy on the front pages. Crime reporting and bad news – for someone at least – always seems to go hand in hand.<br /><br />And of course, there is the understandable assumption that the world, or at least the little bit that you inhabit, is a terrible place.<br /><br />(Well, probably for “Boris Napper, Eddystone Lighthouse” and “Mick, the Barbican” it probably is, because you constantly inhabit your little bit of it. So that’s a given.)<br /><br />But for the rest of you, I’m sure there are times when you just cry out “for the love of Cliff Richard at Wimbledon in the rain – is there no good news out there to rescue my aching soul?”<br /><br />And of course, there is.<br /><br />Remember the old dear who appeared on our front page the other week? Looked like everyone’s treasured nan, had her face battered and bruised thanks to some ne’er do well?<br /><br />Well, since then, I’ve had a letter from one woman, asking me to forward £20 she had enclosed, ideally turning it into flowers first.<br /><br />Another woman, who wrote with such eloquence and reserve, enclosed a card which, it turned out, held £50. Both were formally taken off my hands by the police who – having signed for it’s contents – assured me it would be handed to the woman (I checked later… it was). In addition we had the manager of a residential care home who offered the old dear a night’s stay, a meet up with others of a similar age and a spa day at their place. All for free.<br /><br />Added to which, the photo on the front page elicited enough phone calls of a similar nature for the police to make an arrest.<br /><br />So, that was nice.<br /><br />The Haiti earthquake was undoubtedly a sad affair. But as a reporter, I cannot begin to count the amount of ‘cheque presentations’ I and my colleagues at The Herald wrote about schoolchildren of all ages raising enough funds through a variety of activities to help buy Shelterboxes (a relatively local charity which provides something solid in the way of help) for the Haitians. While the bitter among our readers (yes, you Boris and Mick, you moaning, whinging maggots) constantly lament the respect of youngsters today, painting them all as feral filth, there in our pages were kids doing everything they could to provide shelter, materials and hope to others thousands of miles away.<br /><br />Which was heartening.<br /><br />For my part I enjoyed a exceptionally rare treat – a press freebie. I and a couple of workmates were invited to the newly opened Seco Lounge down at Royal William Yard in Stonehouse. Where there was a free bar for two hours…<br /><br />Needless to say, I drank alcohol to the point where the next day I promised I would never drink alcohol again. But what I certainly do recall is looking out from the bar, across the water to Mount Edgcumbe, taking in the fantastic architecture of the Yard and the bar itself (it’s in the old bakery building) and saying to anyone in earshot… “why do Plymouth people moan about how ugly their city it… this is bloody AMAZING!”<br /><br />Which it is.<br /><br />I know it rains a lot (I spent three years in the valleys of south Wales, so I know what I’m talking about) and the builders of a lot of Plymouth’s houses had the same mentality as Mr Ford (‘you can have any colour house you like, as long as it’s dark grey’) but honestly, you’ve got a lovely looking town.<br /><br />Take into account, I’m from south Essex. It’s flat as a pancake there and the view opposite from Southend beach is of a power station on the Isle of Sheppey and the gas storage facility at Coryton, next to Canvey Island. You get ruddy great oil tankers lumbering up and down the Thames as you whisper sweet nothings into your bird’s ear as you both lick a Rossi ice-cream. So I know what good scenery is by living with a lack of it. <br /><br />But seriously, you gaff is gorgeous. Look out from parts of Jennycliff and you can see from the Eddystone lighthouse, across to Cawsand/Kingsand, to Drake’s island, to the Hoe and up over to the moors themselves.<br /><br />Even up in the city itself you are rarely anywhere where you can’t see a view of green hills or the sea. Some of the city’s buildings are fantastic (particularly near Stonehouse barracks, the Hoe, Barbican and bit of the city centre. Out at Millfields, Royal William Yard and other hidden areas you have the remains of military buildings which reek of charm, splendid moustaches and bloody campaigns.<br /><br />Admittedly, a lot of the young men look as gormless as a hillbilly born of a drooling moron and a badger that’s had a stroke, but you’ve got some pretty fit birds to compensate.<br /><br />So, chin up eh? Open your eyes a bit and take heart at the lovely little city you’ve got.<br /><br />It’s such a shame you spend all your time whining like a planefull of Australians who lost the Ashes when really you should be strutting around, chest out, head high at the lovely town you inhabit.<br /><br />After all… you could be living in Basildon. Trust me - you’d kiss the bloody ground on your return.<br /><br /><br /><br />*******************************************<br /><br /><br /><br />Finally, as an aside, a fun time was had by me recently at a public meeting at Mutley Baptist church about the road closures on Mutley Plain. A nice gent had a good old venting of spleen about The Herald's appalling coverage, full of inaccuracies, hyped up to the max. He said it knowing full well I was in the room and I endured the glares of the crowd of people for my paper's terrible reporting. He positively glowed in the limelight as the crowd applauded his brave and honest stance.<br /><br />So when I approached him, brandishing the aforementioned article and asking him to point out the inaccuracies for me, he at first declined. I insisted, quite forcefully for me, I must say.<br /><br />After taking the piece away, he returned after the majority of people had gone home.<br /><br />He meekly mumbled an apology, recognising the article had actually been, having read it again, completely accurate and without any kind of exaggeration.<br /><br />I stuck out my hand and said "no harm done... except that everyone in the room has gone home thinking my paper's full of it. Cheers"<br /><br />He took my proffered hand and toddled off home.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1