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.
In fact, they're counting on it.
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).
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.
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.
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.
With less coppers, natch.
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).
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.
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.
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.
In fact, it makes for very unhappy policemen, very unhappy indeed.
And, let’s be honest, unhappy policemen are a pain in the backside.
I mean, I've been tracking them for more than a decade as a reporter, and bigger moaners you'd be hard to find.
Admittedly, unlike most of us, their customer base are the kind of people you want to moan about.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Remember, if you can't lose enough weight, just fiddle with the scales until it looks like you have.
Tuesday, 17 May 2011
Monday, 28 March 2011
The first cut is the deepest... unless it's a paper cut, of course
Well, 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.
My apologies, but it's been a busy few of months.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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).
Yes, come along, relieve yourself and marvel at my exploits... Try to hit the bowl while you linger though...
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.)
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.
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".
"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...)
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.
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...
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.
(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.)
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..."
Ah, but "we are such stuff as dreams are made of..." Shakespeare.
(He also wrote of wives: "To suckle fools, and chronicle small beer", although I think he was predicting football in general to be honest).
My apologies, but it's been a busy few of months.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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).
Yes, come along, relieve yourself and marvel at my exploits... Try to hit the bowl while you linger though...
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.)
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.
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".
"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...)
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.
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...
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.
(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.)
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..."
Ah, but "we are such stuff as dreams are made of..." Shakespeare.
(He also wrote of wives: "To suckle fools, and chronicle small beer", although I think he was predicting football in general to be honest).
Tuesday, 21 December 2010
The 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.
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.
Basically, it's my past, I have to deal with it as best.
My only concern came about after the response to this article: http://www.thisisplymouth.co.uk/news/Objectors-fail-stop-plan-abuse-refuge/article-3024923-detail/article.html which made me think whether I should've coughed up to my past and my opinions.
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].
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.
Which in this case is a bit awkward, to say the least.
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.
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)
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.
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. http://www.sussexexpress.co.uk/news/abuse_awareness_training_call_for_magistrates_after_murder_1_2200144
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".
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.
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.
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.
This was the awful case I covered back in Basildon. Here's the inquest http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/england/1641255.stm and story of the history of domestic violence which went on for years http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-69653/The-parents-war.html. (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).
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.
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.
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.
Every week.
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.
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...
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.
Basically, it's my past, I have to deal with it as best.
My only concern came about after the response to this article: http://www.thisisplymouth.co.uk/news/Objectors-fail-stop-plan-abuse-refuge/article-3024923-detail/article.html which made me think whether I should've coughed up to my past and my opinions.
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].
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.
Which in this case is a bit awkward, to say the least.
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.
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)
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.
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. http://www.sussexexpress.co.uk/news/abuse_awareness_training_call_for_magistrates_after_murder_1_2200144
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".
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.
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.
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.
This was the awful case I covered back in Basildon. Here's the inquest http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/england/1641255.stm and story of the history of domestic violence which went on for years http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-69653/The-parents-war.html. (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).
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.
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.
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.
Every week.
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.
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...
Tuesday, 7 December 2010
"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.
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".
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Like I said, it's hearing your mum's screams which I'll recall for a long while yet.
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".
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".
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.
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.
She'd come back in after a ciggie and a wee.
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.
He's dead now, and - I am not surprised - she is pretty happy about that.
"You get so used to the daily beatings and everything which goes with it. I didn't even know what a Refuge was..."
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.
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.
Pliers.
I f***ing ask you! Pliers!
And you know the worst thing?
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.
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...
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".
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Like I said, it's hearing your mum's screams which I'll recall for a long while yet.
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".
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".
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.
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.
She'd come back in after a ciggie and a wee.
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.
He's dead now, and - I am not surprised - she is pretty happy about that.
"You get so used to the daily beatings and everything which goes with it. I didn't even know what a Refuge was..."
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.
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.
Pliers.
I f***ing ask you! Pliers!
And you know the worst thing?
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.
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...
Wednesday, 22 September 2010
Beware 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.
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?)
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.
"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"
Charming, eh?
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'
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."
Earl of Essex: "How dare you disobey me? Master at Arms?
Master at Arms: "Sah!"
Earl of Essex: "Have this man's giblets and spleen ripped out and boil what remains in oil as a warning to others..."
Plymouth Oik, muttering: "Just you wait until Cromwell comes along... you'll get yours sunshine... aaaaaaarrrrrrrrggghhh, my giblets!"
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.
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.
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.
"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'."
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."
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?
Can you imagine a modern equivalent?
Cameron: "Right, when 29 Commandos get back from their latest tour of the Afghanistan, I want them sited along Union Street and Mutley Plain..."
Flunkey: "Prime Minister... are you sure?"
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..."
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.
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:
Don't mess with Plymouth... because - historically speaking - you really do run the risk of Plymouth messing with you.
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?)
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.
"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"
Charming, eh?
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'
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."
Earl of Essex: "How dare you disobey me? Master at Arms?
Master at Arms: "Sah!"
Earl of Essex: "Have this man's giblets and spleen ripped out and boil what remains in oil as a warning to others..."
Plymouth Oik, muttering: "Just you wait until Cromwell comes along... you'll get yours sunshine... aaaaaaarrrrrrrrggghhh, my giblets!"
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.
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.
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.
"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'."
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."
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?
Can you imagine a modern equivalent?
Cameron: "Right, when 29 Commandos get back from their latest tour of the Afghanistan, I want them sited along Union Street and Mutley Plain..."
Flunkey: "Prime Minister... are you sure?"
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..."
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.
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:
Don't mess with Plymouth... because - historically speaking - you really do run the risk of Plymouth messing with you.
Tuesday, 13 July 2010
"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.
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".
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".
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.
(Quick aside: It’s funny how times change. Years ago, if you had a moat round your village, you felt safe...)
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.
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".
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!
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.
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?
"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
A lead balloon never was so beaten in the race to the floor by that gag, I can tell you.
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.
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?
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.
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.
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.
***************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************
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.
Police management
A man in a hot air balloon realised he was lost. He reduced altitude and spotted a woman below.
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".
"You must be an engineer", said the balloonist."I am" replied the woman, "How did you know?"
"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".
The woman below responded, "You must be in Police Management"."I am", replied the balloonist, "but how did you know"?
"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".
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".
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".
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.
(Quick aside: It’s funny how times change. Years ago, if you had a moat round your village, you felt safe...)
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.
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".
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!
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.
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?
"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
A lead balloon never was so beaten in the race to the floor by that gag, I can tell you.
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.
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?
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.
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.
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.
***************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************
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.
Police management
A man in a hot air balloon realised he was lost. He reduced altitude and spotted a woman below.
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".
"You must be an engineer", said the balloonist."I am" replied the woman, "How did you know?"
"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".
The woman below responded, "You must be in Police Management"."I am", replied the balloonist, "but how did you know"?
"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".
Monday, 17 May 2010
It's like I've never been away
I 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?
God, you're starting sounding like my mother.
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?
*mutters, grumbles, ooh have a look at that... 'bigot' eh?... oh, 'eck*
Blimey!
What a difference a month makes, eh?
So, last time we spoke, there was a dour Scotsman in charge of the country and everything was doom, gloom and financial dire straits.
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...
Ahahahahahahahahahaaaaaaa!
*sigh*
*wipes tear of laughter from eye*
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.
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.
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.
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...
Needless to say, this argument appears well thought out and is clearly scientifically proven.
ahem...
However, I believe it only works on the basis of certain factors...
They are that:
a) eveyone in the city can read,
b) they read The Herald and nothing else,
c) they think that every time there's a crime in Plymouth, no such crime ever occurs anywhere else in the UK,
d) there is no other crime in the rest of the UK,
e) crime in Plymouth is clearly worse than anywhere else in the UK,
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,
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
h) the criminal justice system clearly doesn't work because crime - like sexually transmitted diseases - still hasn't gone away.
My retort is the same:
a) not writing about crime does not make it go away
b) the public have a right to know what's going on in its city - both the good and the bad
c) if you're only looking for the "bad" stories, they're easy to find
d) if you're only looking for the "bad" stories, you'll ignore, miss or skip the "good" ones. Like this one or this one which has been busy everyday since, or this which made me smile or this which shows that people in Plymouth aren't apathetic, they just need the right cause to get passionate about.
e) Sisyphus...
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?
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.
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.
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?
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.
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)
Take into account:
a) I don't know about every crime in the city,
b) I don't write about every one I do know about, and
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.'
Answers on a boulder please to the usual address.
God, you're starting sounding like my mother.
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?
*mutters, grumbles, ooh have a look at that... 'bigot' eh?... oh, 'eck*
Blimey!
What a difference a month makes, eh?
So, last time we spoke, there was a dour Scotsman in charge of the country and everything was doom, gloom and financial dire straits.
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...
Ahahahahahahahahahaaaaaaa!
*sigh*
*wipes tear of laughter from eye*
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.
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.
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.
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...
Needless to say, this argument appears well thought out and is clearly scientifically proven.
ahem...
However, I believe it only works on the basis of certain factors...
They are that:
a) eveyone in the city can read,
b) they read The Herald and nothing else,
c) they think that every time there's a crime in Plymouth, no such crime ever occurs anywhere else in the UK,
d) there is no other crime in the rest of the UK,
e) crime in Plymouth is clearly worse than anywhere else in the UK,
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,
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
h) the criminal justice system clearly doesn't work because crime - like sexually transmitted diseases - still hasn't gone away.
My retort is the same:
a) not writing about crime does not make it go away
b) the public have a right to know what's going on in its city - both the good and the bad
c) if you're only looking for the "bad" stories, they're easy to find
d) if you're only looking for the "bad" stories, you'll ignore, miss or skip the "good" ones. Like this one or this one which has been busy everyday since, or this which made me smile or this which shows that people in Plymouth aren't apathetic, they just need the right cause to get passionate about.
e) Sisyphus...
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?
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.
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.
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?
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.
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)
Take into account:
a) I don't know about every crime in the city,
b) I don't write about every one I do know about, and
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.'
Answers on a boulder please to the usual address.
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