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365        <div id="matrix_293825" class="sortable-matrix" data-matrixId="293825"><div class="n module-type-header diyfeLiveArea "> <h2><span class="diyfeDecoration">'Oz - A Hitchhiker's</span></h2> </div><div class="n module-type-header diyfeLiveArea "> <h2><span class="diyfeDecoration">Australian
366Anthology'                                                         </span></h2> </div><div class="n module-type-text diyfeLiveArea "> <p>Charters Towers is the last major town before Mount Isa, the biggest and <i>only</i> large town in central Queensland, with a base catering for The Royal Flying Doctor Service. This gives a good
367indication of how remote it is. 400 miles from Charters Towers, (about 700 kilometres), there’s virtually nothing in-between the two apart from a few very smallsettlements dotted along the road.
368Anyone leaving Charters Towers heading west was therefore probably heading for <i>The Isa</i>, as Mount Isa was colloquially known.</p> </div><div class="n module-type-text diyfeLiveArea "> From the chapter: 'Townsville' </div><div class="n module-type-text diyfeLiveArea "> <p>Moving outside into the rear of the Holden Ute was the best decision I could have made. I lay down on my back with my head against my rucksack and looked up. The hours that followed would become
369one of those very rare, priceless travel memories. As we streaked across remote central Queensland on the Barkly Highway the view suddenly snatched the breath from my lungs as though I’d fallen into
370an icy lake. In the spectacular midnight wilderness the stars of The Southern Cross amongst the other billions in the clear sky above seemed to touch the ground all around us. The dark desolation
371merged completely with the edge of the sky and everything in sight was bathed in a silvery ethereal glow from the moonlight. Looking on, it seemed beautifully unreal, as though we were driving across
372the surface of Mars. Cutting our way through the vast featureless outback with our headlights reaching far ahead, I felt as though we ourselves were at altitude, tearing through space, the darkness
373forming behind in our wake as we moved.A truly unforgettable experience.</p> </div><div class="n module-type-text diyfeLiveArea "> From the chapter: 'Three Ways' </div><div class="n module-type-text diyfeLiveArea "> <p>I fled back to the Shady Glen Caravan Park, trudging with leaden feet, heavy heart and a throbbing head all the way. It was then that I did something I’d never done before or even contemplated
374doing; I picked up my first cigarette butt. I wouldn’t have done it, normally, but the first one I found was almost a full cigarette, just lying there on the pavement. It would have been a real shame
375to have left it. It was such a nice looking cigarette, beautiful and ripe for the picking. I flicked off a few crumbs of ash from the flattened end where someone had clearly lit it and then for
376whatever reason had stamped it out almost immediately. I found another a hundred yards later, only half a one this time, and picked it up with great enthusiasm, dropping it carefully and reverently
377into the pocket of my shorts.</p> </div><div class="n module-type-text diyfeLiveArea "> <p>From the chapter 'The Top End'</p> </div><div class="n module-type-text diyfeLiveArea "> <p>My deodorant had long since run out; it was not a priority so I guess I didn’t smell too good most of the time.One of the strangest things about such traveling is that you might think your own
378body odour would grow much worse as you continue to sweat day after day in the same clothing, but I don’t think this actually happens. Instead it reaches a certain level where it stabilises, and then
379the pong you give off becomes a combination of several pungent smells such as bad breath, general body odour, unclean clothes, tobacco smoke and many accretions of stale sweat, amongst other things.
380Eventually you have a generic kind of unpleasant whiff about you rather than simply stinking of armpit body odour.</p> </div><div class="n module-type-text diyfeLiveArea "> From the chapter: 'The Alice' </div><div class="n module-type-text diyfeLiveArea "> *** </div><div class="n module-type-text diyfeLiveArea "> 'Friendships made on the kibbutz were real and unpretentious. Amid the harsh prosaic reality of daily kibbutz life, personalities and attitudes were more important than the size of your house, the type of car you drive, how many figures you had in the bank or your family background. All these were irrelevant. We were all stripped bare and exposed for who we really were. This was entirely unique in a modern world where money and material possessions seemed paramount.' </div><div class="n module-type-text diyfeLiveArea "> From: 'The End', in 'Kibbutz Virgin'. </div><div class="n module-type-text diyfeLiveArea "> ************ </div><div class="n module-type-header diyfeLiveArea "> <h2><span class="diyfeDecoration">Excerpts from:</span></h2> </div><div class="n module-type-header diyfeLiveArea "> <h2><span class="diyfeDecoration">'The Tragic Romance</span></h2> </div><div class="n module-type-header diyfeLiveArea "> <h2><span class="diyfeDecoration">of Africa'</span></h2> </div><div class="n module-type-text diyfeLiveArea "> 'We kept our own chickens which lived very much with us in a large home-made and quite malodorous wooden cupboard in the front room, so at least we almost always had fresh eggs. This was assuming no-one let the birds out by mistake, an error which would then lead to front room cha
380os of pantomime proportions. My dad had to chase them around the ground floor of the house in his desperately inauspicious chicken-pursuit mode shouting: ‘Come ‘ere ye little bastards!’ or words to that effect, occasionally taking poorly aimed and obviously futile swipes at the mutinous escapees with a stair rod while clambering randomly all over the furniture. It made a welcome change from him whacking me with it I suppose, and it was quite good entertainment too, as there was no television in those days. I couldn’t blame the poor chickens for sometimes wanting to hatch escape plans rather than eggs. They certainly caused major problems when they did escape, as there was insufficient space in the tiny room to dive full length at the errant, scheming birds. A decision had to be made very quickly when pouncing on them whether to hit the wall or aim for the open fire. I remember on one occasion while resolutely pursuing our cock bird around the house, my dad tripped over our bone-headed and snappy little Jack Russell dog and fell headlong into the fireplace. Luckily the fire wasn’t lit at the time, as his head and shoulders plunged straight into the grate with such a thump that many years of soot came crashing down the chimney in one great thunderous black cloud. After then managing to extricate himself from the chimney bottom and stand up, he turned around only to reveal to my absolute delight, and that of my brother, that he suddenly looked just like Al Jolson in full make-up, complete with black hands and face.' </div><div class="n module-type-text diyfeLiveArea "> From chapter one, 'An Adventurous Youth' </div><div class="n module-type-text diyfeLiveArea "> 'As the London train gathered speed in the darkness I became terribly introspective, as my own reflection peered back at me mockingly in the darkened window. Was I happy, confused, or just plain mad? What would I find in Africa? Would I even return to Sheffield? I remembered my dad’s farewell comment a few hours before, spoken in his true Yorkshire vernacular:<br/> “Weer’s tha’ goin’?”<br/> “Africa,” I replied. <br/> “Oh…” he said, bending over to put another lump of coal on the fire. A few minutes later he was buttoning up his coat in silence, and was gone, the front door banging loudly behind him as he went to work as usual at the furnaces in the huge Firth Brown steelworks in Sheffield’s east end.' </div><div class="n module-type-text diyfeLiveArea "> From the chapter: 'London'. </div><div class="n module-type-text diyfeLiveArea "> “Well, we need someone with a clear head, you know. Done any bar work, have you, do you think you can do it?” as he fixed a stare at me, pursing his lips then rubbing his chin with his right hand. </div><div class="n module-type-text diyfeLiveArea "> “Yes, I think so, I mean I <i>haven’t</i> done any bar work before but I think I can do it, of course, why not?” I replied, realising as he looked across his desk at me that he was either drunk or in the first stages of having a stroke. </div><div class="n module-type-text diyfeLiveArea "> “Then the job’s yours…” he said, just as he slowly closed his eyes and started sliding very smoothly sideways off his chair. He parted company with it and collapsed in an undignified heap on the floor next to his desk with an enormous thump, like a large sack of King Edwards potatoes. He was followed immediately by an avalanche of cushions which sprang off his chair and then partially buried him and obscured his face. He didn’t move or say anything. I didn’t know what to do and thought he’d died, so I jumped up and pulled the cushions away. At first it seemed as though he’d seriously and fatally cracked his head wide open until I realised his hair had flipped off his head in one great matted comb-over which then lay neatly alongside him on the floor. He suddenly started snoring like a walrus stranded on a beach, so to my relief I realised he was still alive.' </div><div class="n module-type-text diyfeLiveArea "> From the chapter: 'The New Job'. </div><div class="n module-type-text diyfeLiveArea "> 'It was a particularly hot day and one of the first really dry days after the rainy season. Quite unannounced a young, well-built black African man walked in through the front door of the police station carrying a dirty and stained canvas bag. He was shaking and visibly upset, according to Fred, and with tears streaming down his face he walked straight past him and up to the sergeant in charge. He was cursing in his native language, either Shona or IsiNdebele, and dropped the heavy bag on the desk. He continued talking at the sergeant as though asking him questions in a desperately pleading and accusatory manner. The sergeant stood up and indicated for Fred and the other constables present to get hold of the man. Just before he was restrained he tipped the contents of the bag onto the table. It was a woman’s severed head. The man was dragged into the back of the station, along with the contents of his bag, which it later became evident was his wife. Fred was excluded from the next events but he says what he saw and heard he never wanted to witness again. He gained the impression the man was blaming the police for what had happened to his wife. It must have taken a huge amount of personal courage for him to walk into the police station the way he did.' </div><div class="n module-type-text diyfeLiveArea "> From the chapter: 'Police Reserve'. </div><div class="n module-type-header diyfeLiveArea "> <h2><span class="diyfeDecoration">Excerpts from</span></h2> </div><div class="n module-type-header diyfeLiveArea "> <h2><span class="diyfeDecoration">
380'Hospital Beat'</span></h2> </div><div class="n module-type-text diyfeLiveArea "> 'Dr Chu was a slight fellow, not
381very tall, slim, in his early thirties, and wearing black, square-rimmed
382spectacles, a bit like those trademark glasses worn by Sir Michael Caine. They
383looked way too big for him, to be honest, and he appeared a little comical as a
384result. But under these circumstances, the dichotomy was that he also looked
385sad and pathetic. I asked him where the television came from. He didn’t answer,
386but turned his head down towards the floor. He held his hands together in front
387of him. I could see the upright stature of his frame slowly but perceptibly
388shrinking away like ice-cream in summer sun, as I asked him again. Then the
389most extraordinary thing happened. He collapsed to his knees in front of me,
390onto his thick white shag-pile rug, right in front of the stolen television, and started moaning and
391groaning, over and over: </div><div class="n module-type-text diyfeLiveArea "> "Please... please... <i>please...</i>I’m sorry... I’m sorry...
392please... <i>pleeeeaaase!!”</i> </div><div class="n module-type-text diyfeLiveArea "> He started crawling towards me on
393all fours, in a cloyingly subservient grovel, his face an inch from the floor,
394not looking up at all. I considered moving back, but there was nowhere for me
395to retreat to. What if he lunged at me, and attacked me? When he finally
396reached my feet he started caressing and
397fondling my size nine police boots with his bony, thieving little hands, putting
398greasy finger marks all over my lovely polished toe-caps. My colleague and I
399looked at each other in utter bewilderment and consternation. I didn’t know
400what to say, but of the two of us, Gary spoke first: </div><div class="n module-type-text diyfeLiveArea "> “Perhaps he just wants us to give him a damned
401good shoeing, take the telly, and leave it at that?” </div><div class="n module-type-text diyfeLiveArea "> From the chapter: 'The many doors of Dr. Chu', at the arrest of a doctor who had stolen a large television from his place of work which was found by police in his living room. </div><div class="n module-type-text diyfeLiveArea "> 'I don’t think I’d be entirely disingenuous in
402comparing people such as Bobby, to insects like cockroaches. They feed off
403others in a typically parasitic and carelessly ebullient manner, consider nothing
404sacrosanct, and their only interest in their miserably tedious and feckless
405existence, is the pursuit of their own hedonistic ends, at whatever cost,
406regardless of such encumbrances which hinder the rest of us, such as moral
407scruples. I can’t begin to imagine the level of free thought which goes on in
408the head of such a rapacious person, so apparently at liberty to do whatever
409they wish, whenever they wish, all at the expense of their fellow law-abiding
410citizens. Like Premiership footballers.' </div><div class="n module-type-text diyfeLiveArea "> From the chapter: 'Bobby', describing a heroin addict who made a living from stealing from the hospital for twenty years. </div><div class="n module-type-text diyfeLiveArea "> 'The
411man was standing slightly above them, and in silhouette. Carol didn’t even
412notice at first, as she was far too busy updating Sandra about a particularly
413awkward patient she’d been dealing with earlier. She was facing Sandra too, not
414directly at the entrance, and the man. Sandra nudged Carol with an elbow, once,
415then again. She discreetly leaned her head as though trying to point at the
416man. No opaque fumbling about this time. The man was standing only a few feet
417away from them, staring to his front, at the wall. His erect penis was sticking
418out, plainly, and hugely, from his zipper. He had it grasped in his right hand
419and was masturbating calmly and steadily while the two women watched on. Both
420Sandra and Carol were understandably very shocked, and suddenly became very
421fearful. Their distress was amplified by the fact they were trapped in there,
422with him blocking the entrance. Once Carol saw what was happening, she became
423by far the better witness. She described in clinical detail, perhaps how only a
424nurse could, the man’s precise actions. His hand moved faster and faster while
425his facial expression remained unchanged. There was a very slight sound of his
426arm moving rhythmically against his coat, other than that there was complete
427silence, there in the dugout, between the three of them. After a few brief
428minutes, which they stated seemed far, far, longer, the movement suddenly
429stopped. He was seen to finally ejaculate directly into his hands. ' </div><div class="n module-type-text diyfeLiveArea "> From the chapter: 'The Flashing Blade', where two nurses were subjected to a doctor exposing himself to them at the hospital. </div><div class="n module-type-text diyfeLiveArea "> 'It was only a five minute drive
430back to the station from there. Ellis continued shouting abuse and insults.
431Really nasty, disgusting, foul, personal abuse. I then understood first hand
432exactly what the staff in the dialysis ward had been through. I didn’t even get
433the full picture, however, as Ellis was safely cuffed and locked in the cage at
434the back of the van. I could only imagine what it felt like, an inch from my
435face. I then launched into my own mini-tirade, aimed at Ellis. I felt I needed
436to point something out to this man. He needed to know some burning issues,
437things which were already on my mind, but which he came to crystallize, right
438there in the van. </div><div class="n module-type-text diyfeLiveArea "> <i>“Right. Shut up now. “</i> I
439shouted. He initially ignored me. So I tried again: </div><div class="n module-type-text diyfeLiveArea "> <i>“For fuck’s sake, shut up. Shut up and listen to me!!”</i> I shouted, as loud as I could. This time
440I had his attention. </div><div class="n module-type-text diyfeLiveArea "> <i>“What do you think you are doing, shouting abuse and threatening
441hospital staff?! What’s going through your tiny fucking mind when you are
442threatening the very people who are trying to look after you and your baby?!
443Are you completely and utterly fucking mad?! You don’t go around treating
444people like that! You need these people! You should be fucking ashamed of
445yourself!</i> <i>Look at you. You’re just a
446useless fucking chav! No good to anyone! It’s people like you who are
447destroying this country! You fucking sit around all day watching fucking Trisha
448expecting everyone else to sort your fucking lives out for you! Well it doesn’t
449fucking work like that you arrogant fucking shit! Are you listening, you
450fucking bastard?!!!”</i> </div><div class="n module-type-text diyfeLiveArea "> <i>From the chapter: 'Jimmy' and an occasion when the police lose their temper.</i> </div><div class="n module-type-header diyfeLiveArea "> <h2><span class="diyfeDecoration">Excerpts from:</span></h2> </div><div class="n module-type-header diyfeLiveArea "> <h2><span class="diyfeDecoration">'Who'd be a Copper?'</span></h2> </div><div class="n module-type-text diyfeLiveArea "> Books
451about the police and the wider public sector sell really well, even the crap
452ones that clearly haven’t been properly proof-read or copy-edited, and
453particularly those written from the inside. They are quite rare because according
454to Home Office and ACPO (Association of Chief Police Officers) guidelines
455serving police officers should not write books about their job. Those who do
456are clearly taking a risk, and many are therefore written anonymously. Even so,
457they have to keep their scribblings innocent, amusing, and inoffensive. I now have greater freedom because I don’t work for them anymore. </div><div class="n module-type-text diyfeLiveArea "> As soon as I joined I was told that Sherwood
458Lodge was where all the Chief Officers and their hand-picked staff hid from
459police work and as such proper police officers below the rank of sergeant were not
460permitted to work there. I quickly learned that it was commonly known by front
461line officers as <i>Fraggle Rock</i> from <i>The Muppets</i>, and also by some as <i>The Dream Factory</i>. This was due to the
462fact that some police officers apparently spent their entire careers there,
463climbing the ranks and then disappearing, fulfilling their own personal dreams,
464avoiding shifts and the thoroughly distasteful nature of proper police work. So
465I was told. At first I didn’t understand this level of antipathy towards
466others, mainly due to the natural deference in which I held those of a higher
467status than myself. I was still very naïve </div><div class="n module-type-text diyfeLiveArea "> The Professional Standards Department, or PSD. If you can imagine a huge and rapidly
468expanding department within any organisation whose main raison d’etre seems to be to
469unnecessarily persecute all hard working conscientious colleagues then that is
470the modern day PSD. It’s the same in every UK police force nowadays. They are a
471bastard cross between the Soviet Stasi and the German Gestapo, but thankfully nowhere
472near as well-organised, professional or efficient. They seem to be entirely self-perpetuating
473in that they only exist to further their own ends, to create a climate of fear
474in the workplace, and to counter their own extreme paranoia, and for no other useful
475reason. They usually operate in pairs and luckily for most of the time many of
476them conduct themselves more like Bungle and Zippy from the children’s
477television series <i>Rainbow</i>, but they
478have the power to destroy people, and they seem to relish it. </div><div class="n module-type-text diyfeLiveArea "> “We deal with the same
479families time and again. It runs in the generations.” </div><div class="n module-type-text diyfeLiveArea "> I hadn’t a clue what he was
480talking about. What runs in generations? He fiddled with his radio, adjusting
481the volume slightly, turning a knob at the side of it without looking at it. I
482wondered how he knew which way to turn it. He spoke into it briefly, pressing the
483small yellow transmit button on the top, as though in response to a request,
484which I didn’t hear, then turned his attention back to me. </div><div class="n module-type-text diyfeLiveArea "> “How did you know they wanted you,
485just then?” I asked, genuinely curious. I could hardly hear anything legible
486from the walkie-talkie around his neck, let alone a name of any sort. </div><div class="n module-type-text diyfeLiveArea "> “They just shouted my collar number,
487see?” and he touched the series of metallic silver numbers on his right
488shoulder. He smiled at me. “You get used to it.” </div><div class="n module-type-text diyfeLiveArea "> Offences of assault were
489covered, including sexual offences. A person could never consent to assault,
490even in the bedroom and in private. ‘Unnatural’ sexual offences were discussed
491which mainly consisted of buggery with another person or with an animal, both of
492which seemed to be categorised together and were therefore seen as equally bad.
493Sodomy was discussed, and was defined as: ‘Sexual intercourse per anus between
494males or male and female’. It was a serious crime, an arrestable offence, i.e.,
495it carried a prison sentence of five years, and was illegal even with a spouse.
496Consent, apparently, was no defence. </div><div class="n module-type-text diyfeLiveArea "> There were some lawful homosexual
497acts, but they must take place in private, with the consent of both parties,
498and a maximum of two persons taking part, both being male and over twenty-one
499years of age. There was an excellent mnemonic to remember this: Private, Over
50021, Only 2, and Full consent: POOF. </div><div class="n module-type-text diyfeLiveArea "> “We’re moving out soon. Two weeks
501actually. Down the road to the new building. Have you seen it? The CID are
502already there.” </div><div class="n module-type-text diyfeLiveArea "> “Yes, I have, I think so,” I thought
503of the imposing new brick fortress construction I’d seen near the petrol
504station and asked: “Is it the new building on the corner?” </div><div class="n module-type-text diyfeLiveArea "> “Yeah, that’s it. It’ll be great to
505get away from this shithole. The local fuckin’ snaffs never leave us alone
506here. Every time you leave your car it gets damaged. We had bricks and bottles
507chucked over at the back the other day. The locals really fuckin’ hate us.
508Still, you’ll probably be based up at Broxtowe, not round here.” </div><div class="n module-type-text diyfeLiveArea "> This wasn’t training school where
509drivers would willingly tell you they didn’t possess a driving licence or that
510they were too drunk to get out of their cars. I wasn’t sure I felt prepared for
511it. And what the bloody hell was a ‘snaff’? </div><div class="n module-type-text diyfeLiveArea "> A crime report was something
512you simply filled in and forgot about, with absolutely no investigations
513whatsoever. I was told to make sure I wrote ‘Offender unknown’ on the back and
514that was it, even if the offender was known. I seem to remember one of my tutor's
515survival mottos when dealing with the public was: </div><div class="n module-type-text diyfeLiveArea "> “For fuck’s sake don’t give anyone
516your name, they’ll just keep ringing you up and you’ll never get rid of the bastards.” </div><div class="n module-type-text diyfeLiveArea "> The two of us leaned against
517the public bar, Dave chain smoking and quaffing pints of beer like it was the
518world’s end. He kept telling me very serious aphorisms about policing usually
519punctuated by many varied and colourful four-letter words, and when anyone came
520into the pub he seemed to know them all as though they’d been his best friend
521for years. Some customers would call him Dave, then others would appear quite deferential
522and nod their heads with: ‘Hello Mr Greasley’ and speak to him quietly and
523surreptitiously for a few moments before moving away with their drink. I nodded
524appreciatively and tried to remember what he was telling me while also
525desperately trying to keep up with the pace of drinking. I was hugely impressed
526and felt as though I was in the presence of DI Jack Reagan himself, from <i>The Sweeney</i>. I dared to think that I was
527being invited into this world. We had our uniforms on but with a ‘civvie’ coat
528over the top, which was soon removed after the first few pints. We were then joined
529by the other members of the shift, and at midnight by the four-twelve shift,
530until there were almost a dozen of us cops in the pub. I tend to lose count of
531how much I drink after about eight pints. So it was that I lost count that
532night. At about two o’clock in the morning we all staggered to our cars and
533drove home. </div><div class="n module-type-text diyfeLiveArea "> He looked at me and said quite
534calmly: </div><div class="n module-type-text diyfeLiveArea "> “Fuck off.” He turned and started to
535walk away. I took out my chain link handcuffs from my black leather handcuff
536pouch on the belt of my trousers and took hold of his left arm. At that moment
537his arm was relaxed and I managed to find an exposed piece of wrist for the
538handcuff. I thought I could manage the situation if I could get the handcuffs
539on him, and up until that point it was going really well. But I suddenly
540realised it was pointless trying to put the cuffs on him, however. To my horror
541I could see and feel his wrist was as thick as a man’s leg, and therefore the
542cuff was far too narrow to fit; I just couldn’t get the handcuffs on him, it
543was impossible. In a flash I pressed the transmit button on my radio and sent
544one word across the airwaves: </div><div class="n module-type-text diyfeLiveArea "> “Assistance!” </div><div class="n module-type-text diyfeLiveArea "> I had become a member of ‘Thatcher’s
545Army’, one of ‘Thatcher’s Bully Boys’ as we were variously known. It was only a
546year since I’d returned from my travels with my long hair, broad mind, and a
547mild antipathy towards the police. I was now paid to be sworn at and pushed
548around outside a coal mine. </div><div class="n module-type-text diyfeLiveArea "> Very often it became impossibly
549busy, to the point where no-one was available to attend calls. When this
550happened some less urgent jobs were disposed of, or ditched, as we called it,
551in order to make the job work. They were taken off the pad and placed in Docket
552Thirteen as it was known, the bin. All incoming messages should have been
553stamped with a hand-held consecutive numbering machine, but at very busy times
554this was overlooked. On these occasions ‘when the wheel came off’ as it was
555known, even some stamped messages were ditched. If you ever called the police
556in the 80s or 90s and no one arrived and you wondered why, there’s your answer. </div><div class="n module-type-text diyfeLiveArea "> At times of crisis in any
557organisation the management often run around like headless chickens, and so it
558was with our gaffers at Fraggle Rock. Those of us on the ground actually doing
559the work inevitably suffered. Frequent pointless changes were made in the hope
560the problem would mysteriously disappear. They changed the people in charge of individual
561sections, stations, and entire areas, and they also tampered with people’s
562shift patterns. </div><div class="n module-type-text diyfeLiveArea "> They
563might change the names of things just for the sake of it in the hope of
564improvement when all the time no real difference occurs. It probably looked
565good and someone at Fraggle Rock no doubt gained their promotion from it. </div><div class="n module-type-text diyfeLiveArea "> In the 1990s crime exploded, and still
566no-one knew why. It was common to have fifty cars broken into in a single night
567in the council estates of Aspley and Broxtowe in the west of Nottingham. House
568burglaries were almost the same. In the Forest Fields area I attended a house
569that had been broken into seven times. Criminal damage offences were no
570exception, but the official figures were kept reasonably under control, mainly due
571to the ‘Minor Damage Book’. Anything deemed to be minor in nature such as a
572broken window that might cost £10 to fix, was given a minor damage number. This
573was permissible up to a maximum of £20. The crucial thing about this of course
574was that it didn’t generate a recorded crime number. It therefore didn’t exist
575in the official figures. </div><div class="n module-type-text diyfeLiveArea "> In
5761995 crime continued rising at a phenomenal rate and was completely out of
577control. There seemed no end to its upward progression despite the police being
578awarded double digit pay rises every year. As a response driver I wondered how
579much longer this situation could continue, we seemed to be busier every week. I
580drew a pyramid chart of job satisfaction and workload versus roles within the
581police, because it seemed to me that a tiny proportion of police employees,
582mainly the response cops, actually did anything, despite the staff car park
583being full every day. Nothing’s changed; response cops continue to be the
584hard-pressed front line of policing. It’s another strange dichotomy that they have
585the most daily contact with the public yet within the job their status is lower
586than that of caretaker. If you stay on response for more than a few years you
587are seen by everyone else in the job as a fool and by the gaffers as a complete
588idiot. </div><div class="n module-type-text diyfeLiveArea "> On 1st April 2007 staff at
589Fraggle Rock or their partners at the city council or both working together, decided
590to rename my beat area and the surrounding beats with a fantastical new title:
591It was henceforth to be known as the ‘Natural Neighbourhood Co-terminus Super
592Output Area’. I checked the date, but it was real. Someone was being paid a lot
593of money for this. I imagined the inventors of the title sitting around at home
594one night listening to Pink Floyd, off their tits on weed, suddenly having a
595Eureka moment when it popped into their head. It was like a post-war Stalinist five-year
596plan, more idea than substance. Yet again it was telling us to do something we
597were already doing. </div><div class="n module-type-text diyfeLiveArea "> I submitted a report - which as
598usual was ignored - suggesting we deal with wind damage in the same protracted
599manner, merely for the sake of recording it because nobody else did. A fence
600blown down in a storm could be a non-crime wind-related crime number,
601generating a wind-related non-crime crime report and risk assessment, at least
602a couple of hour’s police time utterly wasted. Why not? The police could even
603sell the statistics to insurance companies, generate some revenue, target
604repeat wind victims, and assist in the long term rectification of the problem,
605i.e., buy a new fence. We need not stop there. A dead bird in the street could
606become a non-crime dead-bird related crime number, and the figures could be
607used by the RSPB or RSPCA to monitor wildlife levels, because nobody else is
608doing it. Let’s get out there and start recording absolutely everything we see,
609because no-one else can be bothered! </div><div class="n module-type-text diyfeLiveArea "> For years when on early shifts I’d
610sit at a computer eating my cereal while checking what had happened overnight
611on my beat area. No-one ever minded, and it only took five minutes. There were just
612a few of us did it anyway, and only on the early shifts, which were not
613particularly frequent. Suddenly there was a blanket ban on eating in work time,
614other than for the statutory forty-five minutes at lunchtime. The female gaffer
615said: ‘I don’t want to see anyone eating at their desks in the morning.’ In my state of paranoia I believed this was
616directed at me. I knew I’d be safe in the gent’s locker room so for the rest of
617my service I ate my Weetabix standing up in the gent’s toilet. After several
618months I became accustomed to eating breakfast with the heady whiff of urinals,
619Lynx deodorant, and semi-naked men with their knobs hanging out. </div><div class="n module-type-text diyfeLiveArea "> The contrast between being
620inside a job, and in particular a modern politically correct machine such as
621the police service, and being outside it, is now huge. When on the inside you
622live in a bizarre gentile world like that of the <i>Eloi</i> in HG Wells’ <i>The Time
623Machine</i>, where no-one upsets anyone and all humanity is wonderful. Nasty
624and uncomfortable things are avoided but if they do occur they are hidden, as
625though they didn’t actually happen, because no-one wants to upset anyone. That’s
626why it’s easier for public bodies nowadays to ignore awkward problems rather
627than actually deal with them. </div><div class="n module-type-text diyfeLiveArea "> It’s ironic that the concept of political
628correctness was probably created like all religions in a dream in order to
629protect vulnerable members of society. What has actually happened is that it
630has allowed dreadful things to happen, and I cannot see this situation
631improving. </div><div class="n module-type-text diyfeLiveArea "> Anyone standing up and pointing out
632that such horrible things might really be happening, or indeed anyone who dares
633to speak out against the flow is quickly silenced. When you live inside the
634bubble it’s not obvious, but after escaping it all seems very clear. </div><div class="n module-type-text diyfeLiveArea "> 'Who'd be a Copper?' </div><div class="n module-type-text diyfeLiveArea "> <p>Jonathan Nicholas</p>
635<p> </p>
636<p> </p>
637<p><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Jonathan-Nicholas/e/B007VXK9DC?ref=sr_ntt_srch_lnk_1&amp;qid=1662981729&amp;sr=8-1" target="_blank">https://www.amazon.co.uk/Jonathan-Nicholas/e/B007VXK9DC?ref=sr_ntt_srch_lnk_1&amp;qid=1662981729&amp;sr=8-1</a></p> </div><div class="n module-type-imageSubtitle diyfeLiveArea "> <div class="clearover imageSubtitle" id="imageSubtitle-2251611">
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680 </div><div class="n module-type-header diyfeLiveArea "> <h2><span class="diyfeDecoration">Contact</span></h2> </div><div class="n module-type-text diyfeLiveArea "> <p>Contact me by email:</p>
681<p>[email protected]</p>
682<p> </p>
683<p>Amazon:</p>
684<p><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Jonathan-Nicholas/e/B007VXK9DC?ref=sr_ntt_srch_lnk_1&amp;qid=1662981729&amp;sr=8-1" target="_blank">https://www.amazon.co.uk/Jonathan-Nicholas/e/B007VXK9DC?ref=sr_ntt_srch_lnk_1&amp;qid=1662981729&amp;sr=8-1</a></p>
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686    <div class="hr"></div>
687</div>
688 </div><div class="n module-type-header diyfeLiveArea "> <h2><span class="diyfeDecoration">On the Eastern Front during WW2 many Luftwaffe pilots crash-landed behind the lines. As in the case of Dennis Copping &amp; his Kittyhawk quite a few of these German aeroplanes have been found in
689equally intriguing circumstances.  'Vermisst - Missing in Russia' is a novel about a young man, Paul Goetz, who joins the air force in 1939 and is sent to the Leningrad Front. A rarity, this
690English novel describes the Russian Front through the eyes of a German fighter pilot. ** 'Vermisst - Missing in Russia' available from Amazon or direct from the publishers, Book Guild Ltd. ** 
691                                                       
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