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.
Wednesday, 22 September 2010
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.
Sunday, 21 March 2010
“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.
And of course, there is the understandable assumption that the world, or at least the little bit that you inhabit, is a terrible place.
(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.)
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?”
And of course, there is.
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?
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.
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.
Added to which, the photo on the front page elicited enough phone calls of a similar nature for the police to make an arrest.
So, that was nice.
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.
Which was heartening.
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…
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!”
Which it is.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
So, chin up eh? Open your eyes a bit and take heart at the lovely little city you’ve got.
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.
After all… you could be living in Basildon. Trust me - you’d kiss the bloody ground on your return.
*******************************************
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.
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.
After taking the piece away, he returned after the majority of people had gone home.
He meekly mumbled an apology, recognising the article had actually been, having read it again, completely accurate and without any kind of exaggeration.
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"
He took my proffered hand and toddled off home.
And of course, there is the understandable assumption that the world, or at least the little bit that you inhabit, is a terrible place.
(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.)
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?”
And of course, there is.
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?
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.
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.
Added to which, the photo on the front page elicited enough phone calls of a similar nature for the police to make an arrest.
So, that was nice.
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.
Which was heartening.
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…
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!”
Which it is.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
So, chin up eh? Open your eyes a bit and take heart at the lovely little city you’ve got.
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.
After all… you could be living in Basildon. Trust me - you’d kiss the bloody ground on your return.
*******************************************
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.
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.
After taking the piece away, he returned after the majority of people had gone home.
He meekly mumbled an apology, recognising the article had actually been, having read it again, completely accurate and without any kind of exaggeration.
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"
He took my proffered hand and toddled off home.
Monday, 22 February 2010
I think its time we had a bit of a chat
THERE'S been a couple of "freedom of speech" issues going on this week I wish to gently touch on.
Firstly, those who were unhappy with Jan Moir's article in The Mail about the death of Stephen Gately, were equally unhappy with the Press Complaints Commission finding that she was perfectly entitled to hint that the reason he died was not, as a coroner found, because he had died of natural causes, but that he was queer and well, probably died because that's what queer people do isn't it, especially if they go about picking up strange men...
Needless to say, my own feeling is there's a circle of hell found by Dante set aside for columnists. I have a map and will make my own way there, don't you worry.
A chappie on the radio (he was on the Jeremy Vine show, some sort of web editor for an online publication) suggested this was an example of free speech and fair comment, and - completely missing the irony of what he was saying - the bile which poured forth (aimed at Moir, as opposed to the bile that originally came from her) was unfair.
So, according to this chappie, the free speech afforded Moir to offer up comment (I won't say "fair" as to be classed as "fair comment" it has to be based on fact, and not much of what she wrote was based on fact) should not be afforded to those who took umbrage at what she said and then went posting comments in reply. Often with rather a lot of passion.
Whereas my feeling is if a) let he who is without sin cast the first stone and b) if you do think you're sinless and do start casting stones, don't be surprised if you're knocked out cold when a hail of stones comes back at you from very unhappy greenhouse owners who are sick to the back teeth of you throwing your bloody stones at their greenhouses and ruining their prize tomatoes...
Free speech is all well and good, but if you can't be responsible about it, then you can't complain when others go "oi, that's not nice, you slag".
Secondly, you whining, whinging, bitter and twisted folk of Plymouth and the absolute guttural tosh you come out with sometimes. All under the banner of "freedom of speech"
Oh, okay - so not all of you. The very large majority of you are rather lovely and I'd love to have you lot to tea and biscuits with maybe a sherry trifle afterwards.
But the rest of you, the ones who endlessly post on the Herald website at the end of every story you can, you really do get me hunting for my hob-nailed boots, gum-shield and lead-lined mittens.
I swear, there should be some kind of test which you must pass to be given a renewable license to post comments. It should start with spelling and include basic humanity.
Case in point - and take into account I've read comments on stories in the past about firms who've shut down losing jobs galore and seen heartfelt comments showing empathy and concern for those workers and their families - we had a story about the printing works shutting down at the glass ship here and talk about bile! Frankly, if there was a real market for bile to power cars, then the next ten drilling platforms will be dotted around this city.
I can't get over the level of complete ****-wittery shown. Such as the one where the Herald was described as "xenophobic", which made me laugh considering last year the amount of negative emails we got from locals after a reporter did a number sensitive pieces about Nigerian families and Kurdish men who had their final application for asylum turned down and were being nabbed in the middle of the night and sent home on the next flight, regardless of the kind of roots they'd put down over the past decade they'd lived here. One year we're liberal-lefty wets, the next year, xenophobes. Marvellous.
Then there's those who said good, the paper won't be missed, because there's no local news in it anyway...
So - no daily reports from Plymouth Crown or Plymouth Magistrates Courts on drug dealers, perverts, wayward youths, violent thugs, dumb vandals, dangerous drink drivers. No council chamber debates about gypsy land, bus company sell-offs, life centre and incinerator building plans. No football/basketball/rugby reports at professional and amateur level. No interest in live bands such as yearly contests set up by one single reporter with a passion for music, entitling it Battle of the Bands and getting young musicians from across the South West to take part. No offering up supplement pages for local schools to create their own Herald reports about what's bothering them or what they want to show of. No stories about local schools/teachers/head teachers/pupils, no stories about local theatre groups and their productions, local charitable organisations raising funds for things like a box of helpful items to be sent to Haiti, no stories about local soldiers based in local barracks who fight in very un-local countries or go training in ice-cold and boiling hot conditions
And for me, no stories about elderly women who suffer awful injuries and their face is put on a front page and as a direct result ends up with people calling police to assist with their inquiry and a suspect arrested and others offering the elderly women special gifts to give her her dignity back...
Nope - never seen any of those stories in the Herald. Must've been that other paper I read.... The Basildon Echo.
*deep breath... hold for five seconds... and relax... sigh*
I take it those of you who said there's no local news, can. actually. read. and. live. in. Plymouth?
No?
Thought not.
It's times like this I actually feel morally superior. And, I should remind you, with me being from south Essex, that happens very, very, very rarely.
Anyway. What do I know? I'm not local.
Firstly, those who were unhappy with Jan Moir's article in The Mail about the death of Stephen Gately, were equally unhappy with the Press Complaints Commission finding that she was perfectly entitled to hint that the reason he died was not, as a coroner found, because he had died of natural causes, but that he was queer and well, probably died because that's what queer people do isn't it, especially if they go about picking up strange men...
Needless to say, my own feeling is there's a circle of hell found by Dante set aside for columnists. I have a map and will make my own way there, don't you worry.
A chappie on the radio (he was on the Jeremy Vine show, some sort of web editor for an online publication) suggested this was an example of free speech and fair comment, and - completely missing the irony of what he was saying - the bile which poured forth (aimed at Moir, as opposed to the bile that originally came from her) was unfair.
So, according to this chappie, the free speech afforded Moir to offer up comment (I won't say "fair" as to be classed as "fair comment" it has to be based on fact, and not much of what she wrote was based on fact) should not be afforded to those who took umbrage at what she said and then went posting comments in reply. Often with rather a lot of passion.
Whereas my feeling is if a) let he who is without sin cast the first stone and b) if you do think you're sinless and do start casting stones, don't be surprised if you're knocked out cold when a hail of stones comes back at you from very unhappy greenhouse owners who are sick to the back teeth of you throwing your bloody stones at their greenhouses and ruining their prize tomatoes...
Free speech is all well and good, but if you can't be responsible about it, then you can't complain when others go "oi, that's not nice, you slag".
Secondly, you whining, whinging, bitter and twisted folk of Plymouth and the absolute guttural tosh you come out with sometimes. All under the banner of "freedom of speech"
Oh, okay - so not all of you. The very large majority of you are rather lovely and I'd love to have you lot to tea and biscuits with maybe a sherry trifle afterwards.
But the rest of you, the ones who endlessly post on the Herald website at the end of every story you can, you really do get me hunting for my hob-nailed boots, gum-shield and lead-lined mittens.
I swear, there should be some kind of test which you must pass to be given a renewable license to post comments. It should start with spelling and include basic humanity.
Case in point - and take into account I've read comments on stories in the past about firms who've shut down losing jobs galore and seen heartfelt comments showing empathy and concern for those workers and their families - we had a story about the printing works shutting down at the glass ship here and talk about bile! Frankly, if there was a real market for bile to power cars, then the next ten drilling platforms will be dotted around this city.
I can't get over the level of complete ****-wittery shown. Such as the one where the Herald was described as "xenophobic", which made me laugh considering last year the amount of negative emails we got from locals after a reporter did a number sensitive pieces about Nigerian families and Kurdish men who had their final application for asylum turned down and were being nabbed in the middle of the night and sent home on the next flight, regardless of the kind of roots they'd put down over the past decade they'd lived here. One year we're liberal-lefty wets, the next year, xenophobes. Marvellous.
Then there's those who said good, the paper won't be missed, because there's no local news in it anyway...
So - no daily reports from Plymouth Crown or Plymouth Magistrates Courts on drug dealers, perverts, wayward youths, violent thugs, dumb vandals, dangerous drink drivers. No council chamber debates about gypsy land, bus company sell-offs, life centre and incinerator building plans. No football/basketball/rugby reports at professional and amateur level. No interest in live bands such as yearly contests set up by one single reporter with a passion for music, entitling it Battle of the Bands and getting young musicians from across the South West to take part. No offering up supplement pages for local schools to create their own Herald reports about what's bothering them or what they want to show of. No stories about local schools/teachers/head teachers/pupils, no stories about local theatre groups and their productions, local charitable organisations raising funds for things like a box of helpful items to be sent to Haiti, no stories about local soldiers based in local barracks who fight in very un-local countries or go training in ice-cold and boiling hot conditions
And for me, no stories about elderly women who suffer awful injuries and their face is put on a front page and as a direct result ends up with people calling police to assist with their inquiry and a suspect arrested and others offering the elderly women special gifts to give her her dignity back...
Nope - never seen any of those stories in the Herald. Must've been that other paper I read.... The Basildon Echo.
*deep breath... hold for five seconds... and relax... sigh*
I take it those of you who said there's no local news, can. actually. read. and. live. in. Plymouth?
No?
Thought not.
It's times like this I actually feel morally superior. And, I should remind you, with me being from south Essex, that happens very, very, very rarely.
Anyway. What do I know? I'm not local.
Friday, 12 February 2010
Getting the munchies with the fuzz…
Surreal moment the other night – standing outside a cannabis factory, with several police officers, all of us eating a slice of pizza each, with me thinking to myself “if I’d’ve taken a few leaves, would anyone a) notice and b) mind?”
It was late into the day and I should’ve gone home an hour or so earlier when I got a call from an officer who has an unerring habit of finding drugs in her patch.
The officer had got my name put on the warrant by a magistrate and I was invited on the bust and the search of the premises, a basement flat.
Quick aside here - apparently the magistrate had told police it was rather unusual for a reporter to be put on the warrant. My response to that nugget when told was ‘he needs to get out a lot more then’ because across the rest of the UK for the past couple of decades it’s actually regular practice.
So, the officers who’d been brought to the party had completed their shift and were a bit hungry, as was I. So after having a good mooch around the flat, marvelling at the care which had gone into growing the cannabis, or marijuana if you’re over 50, we decamped to the back garden for the pizza.
As I said to the officers, it was like being a student again – a huge pile of grass and then pizza for the munchies. To their credit they all laughed. But I think my reference to putting on a Crosby Stills and Nash LP went right over their heads.
The point of this story was I found out the next day that the officers who sniffed out the drugs were actually two PCSO’s - Chris Kinski and Tom Bayley - who work the Efford patch but were on their way back to the station via St Jude’s. They caught the scent, did some sensible checking, then called up the regulars to carry out the formal search. And hey presto, a few thousand pounds of drugs are taken out of circulation.
For me this incident highlights why PCSOs are a valuable resource to modern policing.
The days of Dixon are long gone. No regular officer has time to roll up his sleeves and play cricket with the local kids, before nipping around to catch a cat burglar red handed, and then chatting over a cup of tea with Mrs Miggins and her cat Charlie about her new neighbours who keep funny hours and have too many visitors for her liking. Patrol officers hair it about from 999 call to 999 call, leaving less than a handful of neighbourhood beat officers to pick up the pieces and attempt to solve the far more complex and enduring problems of every Plymouthonian.
Pc’s have one weapon left in their armour and it’s called arrest. They see a problem, they arrest someone. Guidelines, public opinion and circumstances mean they can’t have a friendly word or issue a clip around the ear – it’s either arrest or nothing else.
But the neighbourhood teams, which are largely populated by PCSO’s can be far more inventive, more lateral in their approach. Oh they can bring in the heavy mob to do arrests if they want, but many of the PCSOs I’ve dealt with in Plymouth have been amazingly creative.
While you may scoff – and have scoffed – at streetdance groups, boxing/football/martial arts sessions, community parties and climbing clubs, along with in-school safety sessions on everything from knives and guns to Chlamydia and cyber-bulling, it’s been working. I’ve met local PCSOs who have resuscitated dying men, snapped up information about major drug dealers, fronted up to violent thugs as well as those who’ve taken the time to chat at length to a group of old dears who really don’t believe that youths on their street corner are probably more bored than bad and really, if you got to talk to them like the PCSO had, you’d find they were rather decent youngsters, if only you didn’t bitch, swear and moan at them every time you see them.
So, the next time you guffaw and refer to all PCSOs as Blunkett’s bobbies, keep in mind that a good percentage of them take more time and effort to make their hometown a better place than you ever will.
Anyway, I didn’t pocket any grass and the pizza was delicious.
Tuesday, 2 February 2010
I'm doing OK, you're doing OK
The Government has come up with a new measuring/whipping stick to gauge how well the fuzz are doing. Needless to say, after a decade of using crime stats, arrest rates, detections, sanction detections, convictions and taken-into-considerations (I wouldn’t dream of mentioning how the unsafe convictions don’t result in minus figures, that would be so churlish, wouldn’t it?) they found that the figures had gone a bit stale.
It’s a bit like a humungous person who decides that they were definitely, absolutely, undoubtedly going to lose weight this time. The first few stone pour off, but the closer you get to the ideal weight, the slower and harder it is to crack those last few grammes.
Crime is much the same. The police, with current resources and legislation - and a bar on returning to the days when a flight or two of custody stairs was so very influential in a suspect’s version of events – will only ever reduce the crime rate to a certain level. We’ll debate the "has crime truly gone down" argument another day, but currently the statistics show a decrease.
Let’s just say that like fire-fighters, the filth have hit on the idea of prevention being better than cure. So instead of just solving crimes, they've found it’s better to prevent them. Please note, particularly those of you who use the “comment first, think later” approach to The Herald’s website, that I didn’t say easier… just better.
So this new measuring stick is called… wait for it… “Public Confidence”. Ta daaa!
I know… inspiring, isn’t it? Roll it in glitter and you can make a turd glitter. It still smells like a turd, but hey, that’s politics.
Here’s the scenario:
Govt minister: “I say Sir Humphrey… we’re coming to the end of our time in office, got anything which we can use to prove to the public that we were indeed tough on crime and tough on the causes of crime?”
Civil servant: “Short of hanging Tony Blair as a war criminal sir, no sir.”
Minister: “No, suppose not. I mean how do we show that the public are happier with the constabulary – and thus us - than in the past?
Civil servant: “Indeed sir, it is all a question of confidence, is it not?”
Minister: “By Jove Sir Humphrey, I think you’re onto something… take a memo…”
And thus, the new measurement was created. A yearly gauge as to whether you were more confident in what the police did these last 365 days than the year before.
Basically, it’s the laundry detergent test: “Are you happy with your wash?”
However, these two questions quickly arise:
a) how do you measure public confidence?
b) how do you increase it?
And there’s the rub. Confidence is such an ethereal thing, can it be measured? I mean, it can undoubtedly be faked but how do we truly gauge it? When you argue with the Mrs, you may well be confident you’re right, but you’re obviously wrong. You’re arguing with the Mrs, after all. So your confidence is a hollow sham despite your thoughts to the contrary.
Up at police headquarters in Exeter, they appear to have their own theory as to how to increase public confidence. It includes the use of regular newsletters, micro-websites and door-to-door visits. Some are even working on the theory that a) reading about crime in local newspapers is making people fear crime, thus b) no crime stories in the paper means no fear of crime, therefore c) stop local papers know about crime in their town and happy days are here again.
Now, some of those who wear a uniform and don’t work at headquarters, and thus it could be rudely argued, actually work at being a police officer for a living, think that every time they nick some oily heap of effluvium and get them banged up, even if it’s only until a magistrate or judge lets them go again, it’ll play a big part in increasing public confidence. They are also happy to work alongside PCSOs who have a remarkably creative and inventive way of tackling crime, by getting those who commit it to - as the programme used to say - “do something less boring instead”. Between the two of them, and with a lot of free help from the Specials, they are undoubtedly at the coalface of increasing public confidence.
So, whether you feel happier and more confident in your local rozzers because they are out there feeling collars, bidding you good morning and keeping local scallywags out of trouble with a spot of footie or street dancing, or because you get a nice little newsletter three times a year through your front door and never read about another incident in your local paper, remains to be seen.
Either way, you’ll be hearing a lot more about public confidence in the future. I would advise you that when asked “do you feel confident in the police” you may as well ask yourself “is this a confidence trick?”
How about that, a whole blog and no Janner-bashing. Don’t worry, I’m saving meself…
It’s a bit like a humungous person who decides that they were definitely, absolutely, undoubtedly going to lose weight this time. The first few stone pour off, but the closer you get to the ideal weight, the slower and harder it is to crack those last few grammes.
Crime is much the same. The police, with current resources and legislation - and a bar on returning to the days when a flight or two of custody stairs was so very influential in a suspect’s version of events – will only ever reduce the crime rate to a certain level. We’ll debate the "has crime truly gone down" argument another day, but currently the statistics show a decrease.
Let’s just say that like fire-fighters, the filth have hit on the idea of prevention being better than cure. So instead of just solving crimes, they've found it’s better to prevent them. Please note, particularly those of you who use the “comment first, think later” approach to The Herald’s website, that I didn’t say easier… just better.
So this new measuring stick is called… wait for it… “Public Confidence”. Ta daaa!
I know… inspiring, isn’t it? Roll it in glitter and you can make a turd glitter. It still smells like a turd, but hey, that’s politics.
Here’s the scenario:
Govt minister: “I say Sir Humphrey… we’re coming to the end of our time in office, got anything which we can use to prove to the public that we were indeed tough on crime and tough on the causes of crime?”
Civil servant: “Short of hanging Tony Blair as a war criminal sir, no sir.”
Minister: “No, suppose not. I mean how do we show that the public are happier with the constabulary – and thus us - than in the past?
Civil servant: “Indeed sir, it is all a question of confidence, is it not?”
Minister: “By Jove Sir Humphrey, I think you’re onto something… take a memo…”
And thus, the new measurement was created. A yearly gauge as to whether you were more confident in what the police did these last 365 days than the year before.
Basically, it’s the laundry detergent test: “Are you happy with your wash?”
However, these two questions quickly arise:
a) how do you measure public confidence?
b) how do you increase it?
And there’s the rub. Confidence is such an ethereal thing, can it be measured? I mean, it can undoubtedly be faked but how do we truly gauge it? When you argue with the Mrs, you may well be confident you’re right, but you’re obviously wrong. You’re arguing with the Mrs, after all. So your confidence is a hollow sham despite your thoughts to the contrary.
Up at police headquarters in Exeter, they appear to have their own theory as to how to increase public confidence. It includes the use of regular newsletters, micro-websites and door-to-door visits. Some are even working on the theory that a) reading about crime in local newspapers is making people fear crime, thus b) no crime stories in the paper means no fear of crime, therefore c) stop local papers know about crime in their town and happy days are here again.
Now, some of those who wear a uniform and don’t work at headquarters, and thus it could be rudely argued, actually work at being a police officer for a living, think that every time they nick some oily heap of effluvium and get them banged up, even if it’s only until a magistrate or judge lets them go again, it’ll play a big part in increasing public confidence. They are also happy to work alongside PCSOs who have a remarkably creative and inventive way of tackling crime, by getting those who commit it to - as the programme used to say - “do something less boring instead”. Between the two of them, and with a lot of free help from the Specials, they are undoubtedly at the coalface of increasing public confidence.
So, whether you feel happier and more confident in your local rozzers because they are out there feeling collars, bidding you good morning and keeping local scallywags out of trouble with a spot of footie or street dancing, or because you get a nice little newsletter three times a year through your front door and never read about another incident in your local paper, remains to be seen.
Either way, you’ll be hearing a lot more about public confidence in the future. I would advise you that when asked “do you feel confident in the police” you may as well ask yourself “is this a confidence trick?”
How about that, a whole blog and no Janner-bashing. Don’t worry, I’m saving meself…
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