Hog Day Afternoon

Hi ho, hi ho.

2012-01-28T16:44:00.000Z

The last clear definite function of Man - muscles aching to work, minds aching to create beyond the single need - this is man. To build a wall, a house a dam and in the wall and house and dam to put something of Manself, and to Manself take back something of the wall, the house, the dam; to take hard muscles from the lifting, to take the clear lines and form from conceiving. For man, unlike any other thing organic or inorganic in the universe, grows beyond his work, walks up the stairs of his concepts, emerges ahead of his accomplishments. This you may say of man - when theories change and crash, when schools, philosophies, when narrow dark alleys of thought, national religeous, economic, grow and disintegrate, man reaches, stumbles forward, painfully, mistakenly sometimes.

and all because the lady loves.........

2012-01-21T15:34:00.004Z

No,wait, scrub that mission, she wasn't on the boat after all, she was at home in Dorset

Do rats really leave a sinking ship? (or "Oh Captain, my Captain!")

2012-01-18T10:37:00.008Z

At last I have seen the light. I now realise what all those `time wasting`courses I had to attend during the latter half of my 30 year police career were all about.

I always felt that "Diversity Training" was a pathetic substitute for reasonableness, good manners and of treating one's fellows as one would wish to be treated. I never felt prejudiced about anyone because of their race, colour or ethnic or religeous origins and inclinations. I laughed at lots of jokes, winced at lots of others, voiced the occasional comment of disapproval and on a few occasions I intervened and gave a few quiet words of advice. With one noteable exception, my words and advice seemed to carry some gravitas and honours were usually left even.

So when I see stories like this I refrain from telling tired old wartime jokes about Italian tanks having one forward, and eight reverse, gears - it's not funny and it's not clever.

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills;
For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding;
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head;
It is some dream that on the deck,
You’ve fallen cold and dead. (Walt Whitman)

Nothing topical

2012-01-12T17:14:00.000Z

Sorry but this little `pot boiler` of a post is something of very little or, one could say, much ado about not very much.

I thought about commenting on the mysterious case of yet another Iranian nuclear scientist getting himself blown up,but that is hardly a mystery. Then there was the survey today about some of the nations children being `unhappy` but, again, nothing new there especially from my own anecdotal evidence of screaming, uncontrolled brats, gathered in the various shops and supermarkets of this here vicinity.

A bigger mystery was `who killed the peacocks?`. There were six wandering at large in the village. By the time we moved here 3 months ago they were down to three, then we saw one half a mile up the road or, to be precise, on the verge, `brown bread` as a dorrnail. Sadly, there was one lonely chap on our roof today, pining for the fjiords - or his late departed friends and as feral as peacocks can be, which is pretty tame and laid back. I think someone told us they were abandoned when a couple divorced - wonder how their children fared? Either way it was heartbreaking to hear him honking for his missing chums.

Finally, an update on Chez Hog. We have a new first floor in the barn, as well as new rafters, felting and that fantastic Celotec insulation board. Its quite snug up there and I reckon mother-in-law would be very comfortable when she comes to stay. This afternoon I started to lime-putty wash the ground floor walls. This is not whitewash although it looks the same, sort of ... white. It's lime putty wash, which is lime putty 50% diluted with water, because the barn is made of clay lump and is also a Grade 2 listed building so one must be sympathetic to this rare construction material. My old police firearms team flame resistant coveralls are now a white flecked pattern, ideally suited to the Royal Marines Mountain and Arctic Warfare Cadre. At least if it snows before Spring I'll be a bugger to spot.

I'm re-typing my story about how I ended up starring in Fred Zinnerman's classic film, "The Day of the Jackal" and may well type it on Wordpress, although I haven't deserted Blogger yet - apathy may yet rule.

Hope you enjoy reading the interesting links I've added to the text.

Bye for now.

Blogger Hitch

2012-01-01T15:12:00.002Z

For anyone who accessed the blog and got a title, expecting a post and ended up with more gobbledegookthan usual, there has been a monumental mess caused by the system (not me). I have pretty much had it with Blogger and am in the process of finding out how I can transfer my current stuff onto a new form of blog publisher. I'll be back after this short intermission. (Grumbles off for tea and Xmas cake, cussing and griping about bloody google blogger and all things computerish.....)

`Tis the season to be merrie

2011-12-26T10:16:00.001Z

From a sunny Norfolk, to anyone who has taken the trouble to log on to find the same old post and wonder where the divvel I've been (Blue and Scott, you are troopers true) a very Happy Christmas to you. May our God Bless us, ev`ry one.

What's black and tan and looks good on a terrorist?

2011-11-30T10:19:00.011Z

I try not to plagiarise and always give credit where it is due but this time I can't find the original author. The below photos were sent to me via a much forwarded E mail and I found it so interesting I thought I'd post it up. As an animal lover who worked very closely with the Dog Section during my police career in general duties, tactical firearms and counter-terrorist search, I have a big soft spot for them (which got nipped a few times) and great respect for their handlers.

The below text and photo captions are not mine so cannot be verified. I rarely use the word `awesome` but in this case I'd concur with it's use.

Just a thought, I wonder if anyone from the Home Office has done a cost evaluation and feasibility study to see if a canine can attend a burglary with a cam/corder and take a report from the victim? But then again this is not a good example, as police don't tend to be sent to these jobs as much these days, anyway.

I ought to add this link on PTSD, with a tip of the hat to Roger Fortier.

When President Obama went to Fort Campbell, Kentucky, for a highly publicized, but very private meeting with the commando team that killed Osama bin Laden, only one of the 81 members of the super-secret SEAL DevGru unit was identified by name: Cairo, the war dog.

Cairo, like most canine members of the elite U.S. Navy SEALs, is a Belgian
Malinois. The Malinois breed is similar to German shepherds but smaller and More compact, with an adult male weighing in the 30-kilo range.

(German shepherds are still used as war dogs by the American military but The lighter, stubbier Malinois is considered better for the tandem Parachute jumping and rappelling operations often undertaken by SEAL teams.
Labrador retrievers are also favored by various military organizations around the world .

Like their human counterparts, the dog SEALs are highly trained, highly
Skilled, highly motivated special ops experts, able to perform
Extraordinary military missions by SEa, Air and Land (thus the acronym).

The dogs, equipped with video cameras, also enter certain danger zones
First, allowing their handlers to see what’s ahead before humans follow.

As I mentioned before, SEAL dogs are even trained parachutists, jumping Either in tandem with their handlers or solo, if the jump is into water.

Last year canine parachute instructor Mike Forsythe and his dog Cara set The world record for highest man-dog parachute deployment, jumping from more than 30,100 feet up — the altitude transoceanic passenger jets fly at.

Both Forsythe and Cara were wearing oxygen masks and skin protectors for The jump.
Here’s a photo from that jump, taken by Andy Anderson for K9 Storm Inc. (more about those folks shortly).

When the SEAL DevGru team (usually known by its old designation, Team 6) Hit bin Laden’s Pakistan compound on May 2, Cairo ’s feet would have been Four of the first on the ground.

And like the human SEALs, Cairo was wearing super-strong, flexible body Armor and outfitted with high-tech equipment that included “doggles” —
Specially designed and fitted dog goggles with night-vision and infrared Capability that would even allow Cairo to see human heat forms through Concrete walls.

Now where on earth would anyone get that kind of incredibly niche hi-tech Doggie gear?

From Winnipeg , of all places.

Jim and Glori Slater’s Manitoba hi-tech mom-and-pop business, K9 Storm Inc., has a deserved worldwide reputation for designing and manufacturing
Probably the best body Armor available for police and military dogs.

Working dogs in 15 countries around the world are currently protected by Their K9 Storm body Armor.

Jim Slater was a canine handler on the Winnipeg Police Force when he Crafted a Kevlar protective jacket for his own dog, Olaf, in the mid-1990s.

Soon Slater was making body Armor for other cop dogs, then the Canadian Military and soon the world.

The standard K9 Storm vest also has a load-bearing harness system that Makes it ideal for tandem rappelling and parachuting.

And then there are the special hi-tech add-ons that made the K9 Storm Especially appealing to the U.S. Navy SEALs, who bought four of K9 Storm Inc.’s top-end Intruder “canine tactical assault suits” last year for $86,000. You can be sure Cairo was wearing one of those four suits when he
Jumped into bin Laden’s lair.

Here’s an explanation of all the K9 Storm Intruder special features:

The U.S. Military currently has about 2,800 active-duty dogs
Deployed around the world, with roughly 600 now in Afghanistan and Iraq .
Several of the photos I have included here are from Foreign Policy, as you Will see. Other photos are from K9 Storm Inc.

When you get the Eu. microphone, fill your boots - Huzzay!

2011-11-26T14:24:00.000Z

Police Cuts? That's nuthin`

2011-11-24T18:15:00.000Z

Spike Milligan would have written to The Times and suggested that, if threatened with attack, at a given signal, all the crew should shout "Bang"

Judgement Day

2011-11-22T11:07:00.001Z

I've never had a problem with bikers.

Here Come da F*&%ing Judge

2011-11-21T14:28:00.001Z

Bring back Sir James

November in East Anglia can be very sunny, warm, foggy and cold

2011-11-14T20:04:00.003Z

Just a little pictorial account of my travels over the last week. Been here 6 weeks and have yet to be stuck in traffic. People around these parts say `good morning` and take the time to chat. The local town has no traffic lights, no pedestrian crossings and no Tesco, but does have two traditional butchers, a great old fashioned `hardware` store, an electrical retailer who also sells bicycles and an Adnams Brewery Shop.

Nothing more serious to comment on just yet but, as promised, the tale of me and Edward Fox starring in the same film will follow shortly.

A novel post box

Hope they bought a lottery ticket

That's a real Peacock up there - dumb bird

The `eagle` has landed

A great place for lunch if ever you're in Norwich

Sometimes its obvious that parking won't be a good idea, but you can bet some dumb-arse will try

Ferry, `cross the Wensum

Ferry(back) across the Wensum

This is the alternative route for heavy vehicles!! WTF?


Point man - or `Just when you thought it was safe to eat your fish and chips on the sea wall.....`

....the point man calls in `strike now, strike now`


Leaves are fallin' all around, time I was on my way; Thanks to you, I'm much obliged; such a pleasant stay: But now it's time for me to go, the autumn moon lights my way; but now I smell the rain...and with it pain....and its heading my way`

Reading between the lines at the G20 summit???

2011-11-07T17:27:00.001Z

By special request from Sparkflash, the following clip should be viewed in the context of the current E.U. financial crisis with Greece. The characters portrayed below (Al Swearengen, villainous entrepreneur extroadinaire and Mr Wu, both residents of Deadwood and both up to their ears in life, death and all things illegal and money-making in between) could well be characters from the various on-going Eu. summit crises debates over how to bail out the Greeks, prevent a similar fiasco with the Italians and safeguard everyone else's arse who has a finger in the pie and stands to lose big time. You decide, because as far as I can make out, Merkel, Sarkosy, Cameron and more than a few others could identify with the following conversation!
But I warn you, this contains some seriously obscene language, so if you think you'll be offended, stay out of the saloon or take suitable precautions before playing the clip within earshot of others of sensitive dispositions - it could make their eyes water and get you into a lot of trouble.

Greeks bearing graft

2011-11-05T09:54:00.000Z

When a Greek Prime Minister agrees a deal with the Eu. and then adds a clause of his own once he gets home, is it any wonder that his ministers have to issue statements `backing him`, on the hour, every hour, modifying their definition of the term `backing him` on each our? They are backing him alright, but it’s into the corner he has backed himself into. Just taking the experience of people I know who’ve bought properties in Greece and Cyprus, a deal is not a deal even if it’s been agreed in writing and drawn up by a lawyer who isn't a cousin – and even then it can all go bent. And if that little lot sounded all Greek, it was. I pay my bills in £££’s not Euro’s, but we’re shelling out on this one regardless.

No regrets

2011-10-21T14:27:00.000+01:00

You should have heard the `ashamed to be British` brigade on Vine @ BBC today, arguing that Gadaffi's convoy shouldn’t have been targetted to allow the `mob to murder him`. For me, I hope it was a missile from a British aircraft that stopped him in his tracks (even if it WAS loaned by a reluctant Uncle Sam). I say `thanks Sam for the munitions, the logistial support and everything else you provided`. That bastard had a colleague of mine machine-gunned to death in a London street, his semtex killed and maimed many of my countrymen and women as well as our brethren on Pan Am 103 and those upon whom the debris fell. I saw a flight of RAF Tornados pass over my home this morning. Highly likely having been in Libyan skies. I welcomed them back and said a prayer for Yvonne Fletcher and her colleagues from Bow Street Police Station who watched her die.

Anglian Odyssey

2011-10-20T21:51:00.005+01:00

Hi Blogpals, (if anyone is out there). I have been a bit irregular I know (note to self: eat more porridge and green veg), but there are several reasons for this. Firstly we've been swirling about in the vortex of the house move which, as anyone who has done similar will know, throws everything into a big box, shakes it all about and then tips it out in a different location leaving you dozens of things to do and putting your finances in freefall.

Secondly, we still feel like we're on holiday as neither of us have jobs, although I have more experience of this phenomenon as I have quit 4 in the last 5 years (the last in April in a joyous, quietly dignified but swift, exit - never piss off a bloke with a private pension because he can vanish in 7 seconds). Thirdly, blogging or that other thing, twitting, or whatever it's called has never been that high on my list of `must-do-first` things, although I really enjoy the comments my posts get and, strange as it may seem, I get a sort of feel for the people who leave them on a regular basis and really look forward to reading them.

So after 3 weeks and one day of unpacking boxes (lots still in the barn in the back garden), dismantling and chopping up a shed (40 quids worth of kindling), having 5 bar gates fitted to secure the Jack Rascal Terrorist and removing a built in cupboard in the downstairs bathroom to reveal a lovely window, I suddenly felt the urge to get it out in the open (and will accept a caution from the local plod if anyone spots me doing it). I've added a few pics from a little outing we treated ourselves to today, all within a 12 mile radius of our new gaff.

Coming soon: The Day of the Hog - or The day Edward Fox once appeared in a film I starred in.....

No Mercy in Switzerland

2011-10-14T19:27:00.000+01:00

Wipeout: A motorcyclist in Switzerland sets off a speed camera by sliding along the ground without his bike

Sparks are flying from his bike, which he is thought to have lost control of after noticing the traffic camera ahead of him.

The incident happened between the towns of Cibourg and La Chaux-de-fonds, close to Bern and the French border, on October 2.

A police spokesman said: ‘It appears that he suddenly saw the traffic control measure ahead and lost control as he tried to slow down.

Police say the motorcyclist, who was wearing protective leathers, was unhurt apart from minor cuts and bruises, as well as a degree of shock.

He confirmed that the man was still facing a fine and the withdrawal of his driving licence for up to three months.

The officer said some 18 motorists had been caught speeding on the same stretch of mountain road on the same Sunday morning.

Its a moot point, but I’d be on to any old defence solicitor I've known if I was him! I can hear the glorious bullshit as I type this:

“Your worships, it was the bike that was speeding, not my client. My client was actually travelling at 3 Kmph below the limit as he had a jammed throttle and, not wishing to break the law, threw himself onto the road in order to prevent a crime from being committed. His bike, being on it’s side, picked up speed due to less friction and so exceeded the limit – oh and his mother dropped him on his head when he was two, so he should be acquitted”.

Mullett in Amish Hair Rage Attack

2011-10-13T09:03:00.000+01:00

You couldn't make it up (H/t to Joe in California)

East Anglia Adventure

2011-10-11T12:18:00.001+01:00

Hello Chums,

Just a quick message from the eastern front. Successfully struck camp a couple of weeks ago and relocated

A couple of things were necessary upon arrival; 1. Setting one’s watch back 20 years in order to blend in with the locals.

2. Adding an extra `o` to any words containing that fourth vowel eg: “Norfolk” becomes “NOOfolk”. “Hotel” becomes “hootel”, “Cromer” = “Croomer”, “Lifeboat” = “Lifeboot”, etc.

3. Removing certain other consonents to remove unnecessary syllables eg; “Norwich” is pronounced “Norge”. 3(counting is difficult at the moment). Learning other bits of useful lingo. The other night we were having a mardle, oover the 5 bar gate. (no photos I'm afraid).

Local produce is for sale at the end of quite a few front gardens so we are treating ourselves to fresh, free range eggs, jams, chutneys and fresh veg. We'll be growing our own soon as we're getting an allotment that seems to be half the size of the Isle of Wight. I'll need to get a tractor (no jokes about my Harley Davidson please)

We live near the hill. It doesn’t need a name as it’s the only one in the county which means RAF pilots are narrowly avoiding it all the time, in fact now I think about it, it's actually in Suffolk. On that RAF subject, I saw the RAF Tornado the other day. It took off from what I presumed was RAF Marham (pron. Marm), batted low and fast due south, turned left at the hill and after a couple of top-ups, delivered some munitions onto a suburb of Sirte, Libya, before returning to UK at about 1530 and taking up air defence duties until it got dark at 7pm and they had to conserve energy and turn out the runway lights and approach radar.

Anyway old chums, that’s all for the moment. Must get back to erecting the peat wall defences – south facing - as we’re only 100 meters from the Suffolk border (haven’t yet mentioned to the neighbours that I come from 300+ years worth of the Suffolk Hogday's of Wickham Market, apparently that sort of thing can stop a conversation round these ‘ere marshes.

Yours etc,

Interlude

2011-10-07T10:26:00.000+01:00

Thanks to everyone for posting the messages on the previous re my move. We're still unpacking, so for your entertainment and enjoyment, please accept the below as a little interlude while I work up to write something. Can't believe I actually rode some of those roads in 2003. Time to do it again, methinks.Hasta la vista, baby.

Goodbye to all that

2011-09-23T11:24:00.006+01:00

3 years ago this very month, having returned from Nova Scotia for the 4th time in 3 years, we put the hogpen up for sale with high hopes. Whatever we decided, we realised we could do nothing unless we had the equity in the bank, so we decided to sell and rent. Previously we'd sold our homes within weeks of putting them on the market, but not this time. Its a lovely property, a barn conversion, local stone with some walls 2 feet thick. It's sturdy, in a village that wins awards every year in the Yorkshire in Bloom contests. I always chipped in and my designated week of watering the hanging baskets along the main streets of the village clearly swung the judges this time around, as we got the elusive Gold Award. But in our hearts we knew we were not destined to live here. It was lovely, but somehow it wasn't home.

We moved up here when I was offered an `out of the blue` job that my CV could have been written for, but working for it full time was different to the previous 14 months as a `consultant` and after 6 months I walked. I'd promised myself that after leaving the po-lice, I'd never stay in a job that woke me up at 2am, either from worry or phone calls and my promise was called to action. The 7/7 bombings didn't help but there was more to it than that. (Note to employers: Never piss off a guy with a private pension because he can clear his desk and vanish in under a minute).

3 years down the line and apart from a few extra greys, we have 3 grandchildren - amazing when I don't look a day over 33. We are not moving in to their neighbourhood, not even into the same county, but we'll have half the travelling time and our beloved London will be a mere 90 minutes train ride away when we need an urban fix. I have no job now as all the `hobby jobs` I did over the last 5 years, after quitting the aforementioned stressor, have come and gone, serving their purpose. I enjoyed them all and made lots of acquaintences and a few friends. A bonus, however you look at it.

Mrs HD did similar. She had a `leaving dinner` last night and had a blast with her boss and workmates, great people, some of whom we'll continue to see. As a result of her work, we are now great friends with a Japanese lady and her New Zealander husband, living and working nearby. We know her parents, lovely gentle people, whose home was cracked by the awful, devastating earthquake. They were far enough inland to be spared the tsunami that followed. They have visited us several times, on the last occasion he treated us to 3 verses of `Amazing Grace`, followed by `The Bonnie Banks of Loch Lomond`, played on a harmonica, one of the most surreal moments this old house has experienced in its 160 year history. We have another female friend, who is Russian, studying in the UK to be an accountant but who is currently assigned a modelling contract and is in China for 3 months. People who are enriching our lives.

My final Pilates class was yesterday. I was `Man Thursday`, the only guy in the group, although they never made me feel as if I was, something I doubt would have happened were the situation reversed. The coach was a star and the class were all delightful ladies and were very considerate of my shy and retiring nature, forcing me into their coffee and cake sessions after class ;) Star coach even got me a bottle of Jack Daniel's - must have associated that with me riding a big Harley. I never mentioned the moisturiser I use - a man must have his secrets.

So here we are, all our worldly goods in cardboard boxes awaiting Mr Shifter next week. But all the really important stuff doesn't come or go in any box. Cheerio and see you later.

Sics munce ago i cudnt even spel `dective`, now i are wun!

2011-09-14T11:04:00.003+01:00

Over at Gadget's place, his latest post (probably one of the last typed on his Sinclair Spectrum, until his new public sponsored computer gets delivered!) drew attention to comments made by Tom Winsor about the poor literary and grammatical skills of police officers. There were the usual hundreds of comments in response, many of which give concurring examples of what Mr Winsor was referring to after chatting to his barrister chums, so what can one conclude from this?

I worked alongside an officer who was so bad at spelling that I doubted he could get his name right without first checking his warrant card. He had GCE O and A levels coming out of his ears. I asked him how he managed such great exam results. His reply was simple, "At school they weren't bothered about the spelling, as long as the meaning was there". He made DCI eventually. At another station I worked alongside a Pc who had a doctorate, a former Royal Navy submariner officer who could have probably made it as a concert pianist and, in my firearms team days, former SAS troopers, paramedics, schoolteachers and bank clerks who had formed into a formidable team that were truly awe inspiring. I once received details of a Met Pc's initial written statement made after he had been involved in a police vehicle accident. It read, "The black fella stepped out in front of me. I hit the brakes. Skidded. Bosh". That was it. Not a whole lot of information there. Yet someone had passed that as suitable to be presented as evidence. I've also worked on the shop floor of a major supermarket where the workforce consisted of a similarly varied cross section of society, with intellects ranging from doctorate to Cro-Magnon . I have worked for a self made millionaire who could not write a single sentence that made sense - and as for spelling, wotz that?

I heard that the C/I who replaced me when I retired had two probationary officers posted to the division whose English grammar and spelling was so bad that he paid for evening classes for them, out of the divisional budget! Lucky them. In my day the C/I would have had a friendly chat and `let them go`, except in the 1970's we called it getting the sack, in fact I doubt they'd have been accepted in the first place and if they were, the recruiting officer would have been disciplined.

What do Winsor's comments prove? That anyone can get in? That there are no common minimum requirements? That the common minimum requirements are too low or that no one is bothering to uphold them? That the suitable gene/recruit pool is shrinking or the content is corrupted with mutations? I don't think the police are alone in this, yet Winsor (shouldn't there be a `d` in Win sor?) would have us think otherwise.

(Please ignore any typo's, spelling, grammaticals etc)

Liar Liar

2011-09-13T13:02:00.006+01:00

At last, the police will soon be able to use a passive, non-intrusive, non-threatening, non-intimidating method of detecting when someone might be lying during an interview....it will work on anyone.....except....er.....hang on, can we conduct this interview somewhere in France maybe?

We are all someone's `weird acquaintance`

2011-09-13T08:35:00.005+01:00

Prince Charles caught some more flak the other day.

A lot of people think he is eccentric, well from my perspective that all depends on what you classify as `normal` and in my 30 years as a police officer, including my other life experiences, I learnt not to use that word.
I can tell you that they are not at all eccentric. Why, even when Her Maj refused to allow the police to install mains vhf radios in the Royal automobiles `the Met` just shrugged and went along with it, which meant me and my chums in blue had to go along with it as well – until some nut tried to kidnap The Princess Royal and her personal protection officer took several incoming rounds without being able to radio for assistance on his out of range, 50/50 iffy uhf, hand held radio – that and because he had bullet holes in him (no body armour then), he was bleeding into unconsciousness and unable to return fire due to a stoppage (thats a weapon `jam`). Fortunately my colleague Mick was nearby and put in the call before he too was shot. When I last enquired I heard that Mick still has the bullet, nicely quarterised, nestling next to his liver - safer than the op to remove it. They fitted radios to the cars after that little scare. Eccentric? Nah! This is eccentric

Today is yesterday's tomorrow

2011-09-12T13:08:00.001+01:00

For me, yesterday was not an anniversary.

At some moment, every day, I remember something about 9/11 and how it has re-shaped me and my world. I am not over it. I am in no frame of mind to forgive and I know I never will.

Some might argue that this nil-forgiveness diminishes my humanity somewhat but frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.

Salaam, Shalom, Pax

In a think-tank... in a galaxy... far, far away.....

2011-09-05T14:37:00.002+01:00

"Hey guys, I've got one. Why don't we make it so the cops all have to go to and from work in their uniforms?!!"

"That's great Hugo, God knows why no one has thought of this before. I mean, like, with all the too`ing and frow`ing from their homes to work and back again, there'll be like thousands of extra uniforms on buses, tube trains, pedal cycles, cars and stuff and the proles will see all these extra police uniforms about and be like totally fooled and SO-not-scared any more!

Yah, and, like, all the bad shit about the police staff cuts and stuff will look like it's so not happening - it'll be, like, a bullshitfest! Awesome!"

"And when the cops are going home after a 12 hour shift with no radio, no protective equipment, no defensive weapons and no anti stab protective vests and see bad shit going down, they can get off their bike or out of their car and just wade in and, bingo, it all stops! Have to decide whether they'll get paid overtime for going back on duty though - no, wait, they're never off duty ha ha ha ha ha. And the great thing is that this can happen before they even get to work as well, its just brill!"

"And if they have to arrest someone they can put them in their car and drive them to the nearest police station or just use their mobile and diall 999 and won't have to wait too long for another cop to arrive with a radio, baton, CS gas, cuffs and stuff oh yeah and a stab resistant vest thing - this is, like sooo cool. And if a mob decides to smash up their car whilst they're dealing with the bad guys, they can get a ride back to work in the cop car - it's too simple."

"Hey Giles, how about we also make it so they have to live in one of those....what are they called? oh yeah, estates, yeah, housing estates - not the sort of estate that you live on Hugo (laughs). No, these estates don't have long drives, a paddock, cctv monitors and remote controlled gates, these have things called terraced and semi-detached houses, 7 till 11 shops and drop in centres and things - other people live there.
Then, when all the bad guys know that we've put a copper and his wife and kids next to their crack house, they'll think twice before getting up to no good - it will make a huge difference to crime prevention - wow this is getting better by the minute." Anyone else got any ideas? Tamsin, your hand's up"

"Well, guys (still, small voice of reason), just a thought, when we move the cops and their families onto these problem `estates` to warn off the bad guys and make them, like, behave, what happens if they become the targets for vandalism, have their cars damaged, kids threatened, pets poisoned and have dog crap and fish and chip wrappers and stuff put over their garden fences or through their letter boxes and generally have their lives made hellish.......just saying."

"Well that's easy, we won't have to send a copper round to report it, will we. Save us a fortune. Nice one Tamsin"

Britain is a riot

2011-08-28T08:56:00.003+01:00

Britain is a riot - 5 Translation(s) | dotSUB

Random thoughts of a Tuesday afternoon

2011-08-23T16:23:00.008+01:00

The nightmare of selling the Hogpen is over. What the system terms `an exchange of contracts` took place last week, whilst we were stood in Aldeburgh High Street licking an ice cream - morello cherry flavour, I believe. Our solicitor gave us the news over a very broken mobile phone signal. He said, "Are those seagulls I can hear in the background"? I said, "If they are, will you charge me extra for this call?" Oh how he laughed. It was Carnival weekend. I tried to get a picture of the band of the Brigade of Gurkhas leading the parade, but these wonderful soldiers just march too darn quickly. Several thousand people thronged into this little town for the weekend. It was noisy, they were out on the beach till very late, you couldn't find a parking place anywhere (we parked on a little back street on Friday and didn't drive anywhere until Tuesday) and yet no shop windows were put in, no one was shot at and the only flames were in the Chinese lanterns parade, which we took part in, and the fireworks on the beach afterwards. What's wrong with these people?

It was almost 2 years to the day that we decided to sell up. We have had two `non-buyer's` who cost us two lots of solicitors fees to move absolutely nowhere. We have had 3 estate agents. The first wasn't technically an estate agent as he did lettings, but he charged us a very small fee to enter us on `Right Move`. He was a bloody good bloke and in different times he would have done really well, but 3 weeks after we signed up with him the economy went on strike. The second agent was true to our past experiences. We got a buyer, she then lost her buyer. We took the house off the market to rest our nerves.

We used the third, successful, agent when we went back into the fray in May. The viewings positively flew through the door. The 14th made the offer we accepted. Turned out she wanted it when we were with the previous agent but was beaten to the post by the one that crashed and burned. Pity that agent didn't retain her details and give her a call as we'd have all saved ourselves 6 months valuable living time. Talk about not thinking outside the box -duh. The third agency was good and the lady who handled it was good, but Judas H Priest does this shitty English conveyancing system need a serious Parliamentary kick in the arse.

We have 6 weeks to move-out day. Packing will be easy. Catching one of our cats will not.

I sold one of my motorbikes (the BMW 1150 GS) to assist in funding Mrs HD a new car. Its a Fiat 500. I have yet to find out where I check the oil and vinegar. Whilst I was in an Italian frame of mind I checked out the Moto Guzzi website - Oh Glory!! I do believe they've hooked me again. Ciao.

NO COMMENT! - Sorry

2011-08-23T08:40:00.001+01:00

It would seem that all comments have vanished from quite a few of my previous posts. This is currently a mystery to me and I wish to apologise if anyone feels offended by seeing their wise, amusing, thought provoking words eradicated so suddenly. It was nothing you said - honest!

I always appreciate comments and am grateful for folks who take the time to do so. It was not intended and I'm both sorry and rather annoyed to lose them. Anyone bored enough to scroll back and say something on a previous post, perhaps to correct, alter or add anything they may have stated (now where do I remember that phrase from?) will not be mocked - well not by me.

Hogday`

A Glimmer of light?

2011-08-22T08:32:00.000+01:00

I always like to pass on inspiring stuff, it being hard to find amongst the upper echelons of the police service - and this one came from Inspector Gadget.

I found it sort of heartwarming yet at the same time a little tragic. Why? Because in the first decade of my police service, the majority of the very senior officers were gutsy when the time came. I can recall many times on demonstrations and other large, spontaneous public disorder events, where I've stood shoulder to shoulder with my Div Commander or Chief Superintendent, swapping blows with the other violent mob. (We used to win by demonstrating that our lawful violence was best avoided).

It was unusual to find those who weren't prepared to lead from the front and, as a result, most of the lily livered were well known for it. How the tables have turned that we have to herald this sort of leadership as the rare exception when once it was taken for granted.
Can we have a spine replacement unit at Bramshill now?

Recalled to Life

2011-08-19T12:50:00.000+01:00

Just got back from my hols and found this urgent message. I missed the date to report for duty, do you think they'll miss me?

Dear Colleague,

You will be aware that there have been serious outbreaks of disorder across the UK, resulting in widespread looting, arson, criminal damage, burglary etc.

In response HM Government has issued a decree that all retired Police Officers who have served in a UK police force will be required to report to the HQ of the force they previously served with.

Here they will be issued with appropriate uniform and equipment to enable them to join serving officers on the front line, dealing with the current situation. According to their physical condition they will be issued with specially designed Zimmer frames, walking sticks, walking frames, wheelchairs & mobility scooters. Where possible such items will be marked with Force insignia and black & white chequered tape.

In addtion, mobility scooters will be fitted with blue lights and wailers.

Airwave radios have been adapted to accept a connection to hearing aids.

The Government accepts that there will be a need to provide additional specialist equipment, and incontinence pads will be available at a reasonable cost.

There will not be sufficient time to issue new warrant cards, but bus passes will be accepted instead.

SAGA have agreed to provide specialist Public Order vans equipped with ramps and tail-lifts. These will be appropriately marked as "OAP Police Unit" (an abbreviation of 'Old And Past It") and they will be limited to 20mph so as not to alarm the passengers.

For those who are visually impaired, Guide Dogs will be accepted as Police Dogs.

Asthma inhalers can be used instead of CS spray.

Walking sticks are an acceptable alternative to batons.

In acknowledgement of the years of experience such a group will have, all OAP officers will automatically be given the rank that they retired with.

In recognition of the tremendous boost to the Police Service that your involvement will provide, your Pension will be increased by 40p per month during the current situation.

In order to comply with the Government Order, YOU ARE HEREBY COMMANDED to report to New Scotland Yard at 9a.m on Friday 12th August 2011. This is an intentional date, as of course you will be aware, it is the date known as the Glorious 12th.

By Order

Theresa May, Home Secretary

This Order is also available in large print.

"Society Won't Stand For It" - Well, actually, it does.

2011-08-11T09:50:00.009+01:00

I've heard a lot of tough words from political leaders of both national and local government over the last 24 hours. Heard a few from the Scottish National leadership too. I thought I ought to make that distinction as I wouldn't want to leave them tarred with the same brush as us south-of-the-border barbarians, after all they have their own reputations to preserve and protect - no offence Alex.

The general gist reaching my ears was that `the community won't stand for it`. Well I beg to differ, the community does stand for it and has stood for it for a couple of decades or more. In my police career I watched as social controls that me and my colleagues took for granted were dissolved in a series of stealthy moves. Just how this was affecting me and my officers was made very apparent just before I was promoted to inspector when I was the community beat sergeant for what was one of the largest concentrations in Europe of people receiving some form of housing, social and other benefits. The majority were good folks, struggling to make ends meet, as indeed I was albeit on my slightly different socio/economic stratum, but at least I had a secure job and the means within it, and myself, to improve my position when I chose to do so. As it turned out I was worse off once I got promoted to inspector and beyond, but thats another lesson I might go into some other time.

My reasoning behind saying that the community does stand for this disorder, theft and destruction has its origins, from my perspective, in the period of time when I was suddenly faced by the fact that the Crown Prosecution Service (CPS) would no longer take to court the cases that me and my officers were trying to prosecute and these were the cases that made a difference to the ordinary people living in my area. There were occasions that we reported people for what,from the macro view, would be considered minor matters. But working on those estates amongst the residents meant we were a recognisable face of the law that they could actually put a name to (it wasn't always a polite name, but hey, thats the way it goes). Having a brew with them, being seen daily, sharing their concerns and, most importantly, taking action on the things that blighted their little bit of life was what the majority wanted and I believe that goes for most of us.

But gradually the things that we were taking action over, things that our community wouldn't stand for, like disorderly words and behaviour outside the `7-11`, criminal damage, nicking bikes, not maintaining their vehicles and countless other `petty` matters, started to get rejected by the CPS. This creeping paralysis followed me up through the next two ranks to the point that on one occasion, in order to support one of my officers, I actually went to the court where his case was being heard and asked to speak to the bench in order to urge them to see through the `minor` charge and to explain to the magistrates about the hidden part of the iceberg that was sinking peoples dreams of a tolerable life. It was a total waste of my time as `the system` wouldn't, couldn't, wasn't even allowed to see it.

This erosion of the small stuff had the effect of `racheting up` the tension on the streets. It was a gradual process because what we were dealing with here was the subtle manipulation of society's behavioural patterns, but it most definitely was happening. More and more cases that my officers put before the CPS would be watered down or even rejected as `not being worthy` or `too costly`. One prosecuting solicitor actually said to me that a particular case was one that would really be suitable for `a clip round the ear`! I told him that this was now a myth and I was asking for a judicial clip round the ear in this case. Classic short term, short sighted economy. You buy a dirt cheap motor and it dies on you, quickly draining your bank account as it falls apart. It is a big hole into which you pour money.

Everybody knew that the British police were pretty damn good at dealing with major crime. Our training establishments up and down the country always had officers from all over the world on the various courses, coming here because we were a centre of excellence as were our procedures and strategies. If you were a foreign officer on a British police training course you had been selected for greater things by your home force. But as our legal system has abandoned the small stuff, taking the macro economic view, so they have taken their eye not only off the micro societal ball in order to save money in their own particular sphere of operation, but they have taken their eyes off the entire game.

Now, the game that is being played out is fuelled by the notion bred into the generation that grew up in the recent couple of decades, that society does in fact `stand for it`, that there's nothing anyone wants to do about it and that nothing will happen even if they get caught. I refer to the paraphrased words I cited in my previous post, words from the mouth of the thieving looting scum who I heard on BBC Radio news yesterday morning, recorded by a plucky BBC reporter in Manchester:

“Reporter: `Why are you doing this?
Scum teen looter: ` Cos I can get away wiv it man. I ain’t bothered. If I’m caught, this is my 1st offence, so what happens if I’m caught? Nothing. I'm gonna keep doin it till I'm caught`.
Reporter: "But what happens when you get home with new goods that you've stolen. What will your parents do?"
Scum teen looter: "Nuffink man. What are they going to do to me? If I'm caught I'm a first offender. So I get an ASBO"

So for any political leader who is tempted to make a rallying cry of, `society won't stand for it` I say they should take a good long look over their shoulders, because the succession of social and criminal justice policies that have seeped into our society is precisely what they and their predecessors have sanctioned and have, by their acquiescence, deemed we should `put up with`, `stand for` or just pinch our noses and swallow down whole.

I think most of them should now realise what `society` does and doesn't want to stand for. Now get on and give us what the majority really want - but don't let it take a couple of decades to take hold.
NB: See Maslo's triangle, 2nd tier.

Why we loot

2011-08-10T08:36:00.002+01:00

I have just heard it from the mouth of the scum on this local radio station BBC LEEDS . One of their reporters had managed to get hold of a piece of scum, looting goods from a shop in a town/city somewhere. I didn't get the entire interview but I can paraphrase it here:

“Reporter: `Why are you doing this?
Scum teen looter: ` Cos I can get away wiv it man. I ain’t bothered. If I’m caught, this is my 1st offence, so what happens if I’m caught? Nothing`.
Reporter: "But what happens when you get home with new goods that you've stolen. What will your parents do?"
STL: "Nuffink man. What are they going to do to me? If I'm caught I'm a first offender. So I get an ASBO".

There was more and my above is by no means accurate, but I urge anyone who feels so inclined to go to the BBC Leeds website and find the interview, which followed the 8am news this morning. If anything summed it all up, this interview was IT.

Addendum: I thought I'd add this. It came in a message elsewhere from an American serving alongside our guys in Afghan.:

“This is as it should be, for our Nation is founded on the principle that observance of the law is the eternal safeguard of liberty and defiance of the law is the surest road to tyranny. The law which we obey includes the final rulings of the courts, as well as the enactments of our legislative bodies. Even among law-abiding men few laws are universally loved, but they are uniformly respected and not resisted.

Americans are free, in short, to disagree with the law but not to disobey it. For in a government of laws and not of men, no man, however prominent or powerful, and no mob however unruly or boisterous, is entitled to defy a court of law. If this country should ever reach the point where any man or group of men by force or threat of force could long defy the commands of our court and our Constitution, then no law would stand free from doubt, no judge would be sure of his writ, and no citizen would be safe from his neighbors.”

President John F. Kennedy – Sept. 30, 1962 in a speech on civil rights and referring to mob mentality.

The Random, Angry Shot

2011-08-07T16:40:00.009+01:00

Whether it was planned subterfuge, a deliberate action or the odd angry shot that brought down the aircraft and took the lives of so many of our allies, some very special warriors lost their lives in this incident. Family and friends of mine have fought in Afghanistan and Iraq. Their experiences of the randomness of death and survival is almost impossible to comprehend. A movement made a split second too early, or too late, can quite literally be the difference between a rush of passing air and an impact from a bullet, RPG, IED, mortar or SAM - the microscopic difference between oblivion and the euphoria of surviving a firefight. It is often beyond rational analysis as to why one survives and another takes a hit and yesterday our American allies took a big hit. It would appear that the majority were `Special Forces`. The last time this country lost so many such forces in a single incident was in the Falklands War when 21 lost their lives in a Sea King helicopter crash.
The following is a tribute from a blogpal of mine that I felt moved to share. With acknowledgment to Neptunus Lex.

I don’t believe I ever met any of the fallen heroes from DevGru. I don’t know their names, have not seen their faces. They shun recognition from anyone not of their tribe, knowing that no one not of them can appreciate what they have gone through, what they have accomplished, what they have been forced to do. But I have met them, or men like them.
I also know fighter pilots, know them well. They give pride of place to few, their arrogance is legendary, even if overblown by those who envy their accomplishments. I’ve known fighter pilots who can make an airplane sing, who can turn the turbulent world of air combat into an operatic ballet, with themselves as the conductor. Knowing every beat and stanza, placidly certain of the denouement. But I never knew a fighter pilot who in his most private self would not tip his head to those few, those noble few, who are qualified to bring death to our nation’s foes by sea, air and land.
I never knew an admiral I respected more as a man than a second class petty officer SEAL.
I believed that if I had played the game the way it was meant to be played, and caught a few lucky breaks, I might have made flag rank. I know that I do not have now, and never did have, what it takes to be a Navy SEAL.
The selection process is rigorous, the training syllabus withering. You may think you have what it makes to be a member of the teams. But if the instructional staff has doubts about your intelligence, your dedication, your ability to work as a member of a team, your physical stamina and endurance, you are done. There is no court of secondary appeal. And when they have decided that you do not have what it takes to make the grade, to fight alongside their beloved brothers in arms, you will leave thinking it was your decision. You will ring the bell and be grateful.
For those few who make the cut, those who get to wear the Budweiser, the real challenges are yet to come. The challenge now is not to make the cut, it is not to grasp the intricacies of advanced training. The challenge is to go to places so utterly foreign, and fight foes so thoroughly implacable that to take the mission is to willingly part with all that you have, and all that you love, and place everything in the balance in a desperate gamble.
You will be expensively and thoroughly trained, of course. You will have practiced until your motions seem involuntary. You will have in your company men who know, trust and love you in their own rough way. You will have certain knowledge of the justice of your cause, and the depravity of your enemy. But you will also know that fate plays its own games as you feel the beat of your own heart in your breast, knowing – as young men should never have to know – that when you’re on a mission, the next beat is not promised. Knowing that the fog of war is ineluctable, no matter your training, experience and skill.
Knowing that things can and will go wrong.
And you go anyway. Night after night, week after week, taunting fate.
You go knowing that it is not merely your own life that trembles in the balance, but the lives of those you love, and who depend upon you. You go knowing that there is something more important even than those things: It is the idea we as a nation represent, whose best exemplification is those you fight alongside. You do not dwell on it, nor do you wear it on your sleeve. But it is there nonetheless.
I know this because I have met them.
They are as humble in their public presentation as fighter pilots are ostentatiously obnoxious. A fighter pilot may feel that he has something to prove, a SEAL knows that he does not. At least not before mere mortals. The only beings that a SEAL feels obligated to prove himself to are his God and his teammates. And in the places that they insert themselves, God is rarely in the room.
Privation instead, and hardship. Monastic devotion to fitness, warrior prowess and to each other. Long days of preparation and rehearsal. Slow, creeping hours of approach to contact and moments of fierce combat. Expecting no quarter, and giving little. Living in each moment while knowing that each could be the last. Buttressed by the man to your left or right. Face forward to the foe.
Fight and win, or fight and die. No ejection seats.
We had a tradition at TOPGUN of instructor staff leaving something for those they leave behind. One officer left a plaque which read, “For those who know, no explanation is necessary. For those who don’t, no explanation is possible.”
Amen.

–

In the face of all this, it’s natural to ask, what can I do?
This: Donations to the NavySEALFoundation.org will go directly to defray the costs associated with bringing families to the East Coast and continue support to the families of the fallen.
They gave all for you.
What will you give for them?

There's something wrong with our bloody senior officers

2011-08-06T09:58:00.001+01:00

"It is sad that an unarmed officer has been shot whilst performing his duty to the public".

That was a quote from the divisional commander of a Metropolitan Police officer who was shot a couple of weeks ago, whilst pursuing a suspect on foot.

SAD? SAD?

WTF?

THIS is a senior officer:

Obamacare Beware! The McDougall's are coming

2011-08-04T09:48:00.005+01:00

These are sentences exactly as typed by medical secretaries

in NHS Greater Glasgow

1. The patient has no previous history of suicide.

2. Patient has left her white blood cells at another hospital.

3. Patient's medical history has been remarkably insignificant with only a 40 pound weight gain in the past three days.

4. She has no rigors or shaking chills, but her husband states she was very hot in bed last night.

5. Patient has chest pain if she lies on her left side for over a year.

6. On the second day the knee was better and on the third day it disappeared.

7. The patient is tearful and crying constantly. She also appears to be depressed.

8. The patient has been depressed since she began seeing me in 1993.

9. Discharge status:- Alive, but without my permission.

10. Healthy appearing decrepit 69-year old male, mentally alert, but forgetful.

11. Patient had waffles for breakfast and anorexia for lunch.

12. She is numb from her toes down.

13. While in ER, she was examined, x-rated and sent home.

14. The skin was moist and dry.

15. Occasional, constant infrequent headaches.

16. Patient was alert and unresponsive.

17. Rectal examination revealed a normal size thyroid.

18. She stated that she had been constipated for most of her life until she got a divorce.

19. I saw your patient today, who is still under our care for physical therapy.

20. Both breasts are equal and reactive to light and accommodation.

21. Examination of genitalia reveals that he is circus sized.

22. The lab test indicated abnormal lover function.

23. Skin: somewhat pale, but present.

24. The pelvic exam will be done later on the floor.

25. Large brown stool ambulating in the hall.

26. Patient has two teenage children, but no other abnormalities.

27. When she fainted, her eyes rolled around the room.

28. The patient was in his usual state of good health until his airplane ran out of fuel and crashed.

29. Between you and me, we ought to be able to get this lady pregnant.

30. She slipped on the ice and apparently her legs went in separate directions in early December.

31.. Patient was seen in consultation by Dr. Smith, who felt we should sit on the abdomen and I agree.

32. The patient was to have a bowel resection.. However, he took a job as a stock broker instead.

33. By the time he was admitted, his rapid heart had stopped, and he was feeling better.

For the sake of your health - stay away from hospital

Mysterious jump and fall of crime figures - again

2011-08-03T11:39:00.002+01:00

Here in the land of sheep, moors and rolling dales there has been, for this quiet patch, a big leap in crime judging by the latest bulletin sent to me by the neighbourhood watch co-ordinator.

The same type of metal theft, artifice crime and cowboy roofing and tarmac`ing always seems to happen when a local patch of lovely land is turned into a site of hazardous waste, coinciding with the arrival of white transit vans, caravans and assorted horses. The land, once vacated, has a council refuse cart sized pile of rubbish and human detritus scattered about it, that the local council come and scoop up. The big spike in the crime figures suddenly drops back to zero/normal after said vans, horses etc vanish. This spike and plummet happens every year this happens to this patch of land, yet the police don't seem to be able to make any connection.

I think there must be something wrong with their crime pattern analysis computer, or perhaps the analyst (if they still employ one) is just not reading it right? Perhaps the locals have an idea who might be responsible?

Meanwhile, elsewhere in the press (not)

2011-08-03T11:11:00.003+01:00

With everything else that the individual officers of the Metropolitan Police have to contend with, especially of late, including taking lots of flak that the vast majority of officers had nothing whatsoever to do with, I thought I'd post up something I discovered whilst searching for something completely different, but having the same initials `ATAC`.

I've never heard of the Association of Tartan Army Clubs, although I am aware of any number of groups who like to give themselves the suffix of "Army" for some reason, doubtless connected with a primeval male macho bonding thing. Anyway, I suddenly found myself reading a letter and knowing that most of my former colleagues in The Met and elsewhere rarely see such things, I thought I'd share with the tiny few who occasionally drop by this blog. Nice one guys.

Association of Tartan Army Clubs

Address protected on websites

29 March 2011

Derek Kirkwood

Security Officer

Scottish Football Association

Hampden Park

GLASGOW

Dear Derek,

Brazil –v- Scotland, The Emirates, Sunday 27 March 2011

Metropolitan Police & The Stewards

I write on behalf of the Association of Tartan Army Clubs (ATAC) and the many thousands of Scottish football supporters who attended the above match.

We would be grateful if you could extend our gratitude and thanks to those officers from the Metropolitan Police who were on duty at the above match. Indeed throughout the city both before and after the match. We know that they had a number of issues to deal with in the city over the weekend, but it was clear that they were willing to offer assistance and a smile.

We found them to be extremely professional, pleasant and in good humour when dealing with the many Scottish supporters who attended the match. It was a pleasure to be treated with respect and courtesy, which no doubt assisted in the overall carnival like atmosphere both in and outside the stadium.

Praise also has to go to the Stewards supplied by Arsenal Football Club; they were highly professional and helpful.

There’s no doubt that you had briefed them well on what to expect Derek - good job, well done.

We appreciate that policing and stewarding a football match can be a thankless task. However can we simply say to them THANK YOU.

Yours sincerely

Jim Brown

ATAC – SFA Liaison.

A look back at Norway

2011-07-30T09:55:00.005+01:00

I didn't comment on the Norway massacre. One tends to find oneself repeating previous comments on similar incidents almost ad nauseum; But in my profile I do mention that I spent many years as a tactical firearms team officer and I was an instructor and tactical adviser, so here I go again:

A good shot with a humble .22 sporting rifle (found in thousands of country homes up and down the UK) and pockets full of easily carried ammunition, could kill and maim dozens and dozens, including the responding police, be they armed response vehicle crew or the unarmed 99%, just as Ryan did in Hungerford and he had an AK47 military rifle. Isn't a .22 tiny? Relative to full bore ammunition, yes, but its a bit like asking which bullet will kill you best. Range of a .22? If he could see you, he could hit you, its as simple as that. Once contained he'd continue to be extremely dangerous to the police who would do well to keep him contained and either starve him or let the negotiators bore him to suicide or surrender.
There are no police teams sat waiting to be deployed to such incidents in a Chinook helicopter or any other helicopter, anywhere in the world, as far as I know. If we want to improve the impression that we take public and officer safety seriously, we could provide quicker access to long arms for the non tactical firearms trained police, but its no cure and would require a big chunk of money (not that this is reason not to). Thats the way we live.

The Operetta that is Trial by Jury

2011-07-28T12:09:00.002+01:00

In my previous post I sang the praises of the Dutch police system. I casually mentioned that in The Netherlands, a great liberal democracy, there is no such thing as trial by jury. This case makes interesting reading
although no inference should be drawn from it.

Cheaper by half

2011-07-26T15:33:00.002+01:00

In a piece I read over at `Calling England` this morning it seems that the nationalisation of the police in the UK is coming closer by stealth. Being carried in the Guardian of course meant that there was a sinister, big brother slant on it, but as anyone with any sense will realise, there have been specialist police surveillance units for ages. I have no real view on this amalgamation subject beyond what I felt 20 years ago when I wrote a piece in the Police Federation magazine.

In that article I expressed serious doubt that a huge faceless organisation could be truly representative of the community it served and that making a complaint against a locally accountable chief officer was far preferable than being passed from pillar to post in some faceless, nameless office in London before ending up on an equally faceless mandarin's desk for a good rubber stamping. In terms of economies of scale, I had no problem with a standardisation of forces in respect of purchasing equipment, application of IT and the like, but I just wasn't sure about the potential loss of local identity and the application of a local policy for local issues ("we'll have no trouble here, we're a local shop for local people"). Frankly, the local accountability I thought we had then didn't, on reflection, add up to much and I think I probably made far too much of it. Perhaps idealism really is for the young?

Since writing that article, I have seen my last force's air support unit, surveillance unit and, in part, its firearms teams amalgamate with neighbouring forces. The head of the former, an old chum, wrote to me recently slating what had happened to his air force and citing appalling response times and equally diminished cover and loss of credibility with the boots on the ground. From my own observations and contacts in my own area, there is precious little cover at the moment and that is sure to get even thinner as the cuts roll over us all.

One police organisation that really impressed me during my academic studies was this one. We have a lot in common in that they police a liberal democracy, arguably far more liberal than ours (and there's no such thing as trial by jury either, a great bonus). If this country is to go `national police force`, we could do a lot worse than take a leaf out of their book. They have a direct officer entry system, something that was also debated during the Margaret Thatcher years when Ken `thats not a real rape` Clarke was Home Secretary. That debate was not well received by the police at the time and I hear it is being raised again, with equal resistance from many quarters, including the comment pages of Inspector Gadget.

I worked with direct entry officers in The Netherlands as well as those who got to senior ranks the long way and, frankly, the same debates and gripes as we are hearing now were had in police canteens over there as well. But the bottom line was that good police leaders in Amsterdam were made of the same stuff as good police leaders in London, Liverpool or Skipton and the crap ones were there as well with the same detrimental effect on their subordinates. Human nature doesn't change that much just because you've gone a couple of hundred miles across the North Sea.

So this time around, if there are moves afoot to introduce a direct `officer` entry system in the UK police service, I for one would not raise any objections if it modelled itself on what I saw in The Netherlands - and if those that were clearly not up to leading and commanding were identified and dealt with accordingly, then not a peep would you hear from me on that, either.

Random Conversations with the News Media

2011-07-19T09:22:00.003+01:00

Insp Hogday: "Force Control Room, can I help you"?

News Agency Man: "Hi Hog, its Dave from Leer and Smear News Agency. A little bird tells me of a sudden death in Sticksville. A detached house in Ruby Road, couple of middle aged male occupants. I believe one of them was found dead in....what shall I say... unusual circumstances. Anything you can throw me on this one"?

HD: "Hello Dave, who have you been talking to this time"? (hears chuckle, followed by smokers cough).

NAM: "Well, you know, we have our sources. So what's the deal on this one"?

HD: "There's no deal Dave, you know very well that sudden deaths are investigations on behalf of HM Coroner. As well as serving that most ancient of Royal Appointments we are also mindful of the sensitivities of the bereaved so I won't be divulging anything to you on this matter. Anything else I can help you with today"?

NAM: "Well can I put it this way, we've been told that the circumstances are quite unusual, so a little steer would be really useful".

HD: "Listen very carefully, for I shall say this only once. If you are thinking `bizarre homosexual or erotic intrigue`, forget it. Now, can you tell me why you are thinking its unusual, or perhaps you can tell me what happened in the Gulf War overnight"?

NAM: "Can't you give me something Off the record"?

HD: "Ok Dave, off the record, this telephone line is recorded for our mutual assistance and protection. On the record I'm never off the record, now piss off, please". (More laughter and coughing).
End of call.

I refer to the final, short, paragraph of my previous post.

Addendum: Having just listened to some of the Gov't committee proceedings, it occurred to me that not only would I still not use that paper for the purpose I said, but neither would I want to employ anyone associated with it, but then I was never in the business of recruiting people into a police media relations department and neither, would it seem, was the former commissioner or assistant commissioner. For the bulk of my service there were no ex journalists working within the job, in fact we never had a media relations department at all in my county force until the 80's. Such naïveté . (I wonder how much these media departments cost and could the police manage without them?)

(and in case you were wondering, the poor deceased died with his head down the lav'. The news leak could have only come from the police or the ambulance service or the undertaker or a relative of any of the aforementioned who may have been told. I'm sure the news agency wasn't hacking into the police radio net, I mean, even when they got to incidents before we did, I'm sure it was just down to a journo's instinct)

Saddle Happy

2011-07-13T10:08:00.000+01:00

Haven't been here for a while. Jumped on one of the motorbikes last week (I haven't yet mastered how to ride them both at the same time) and scooted off to East Anglia for a few days recce. Thanks to some good friends who were away up North, I was able to use their home on the Norfolk/Suffolk border as a base and save myself a lot of money in a B&B.

Back roads of Suffolk

Border country - Norfolk on the left bank, Suffolk on the right

Dustbin day at the church

The 210 mile run started at 6.30pm and I arrived at 9.30pm. Travelling in the UK can be quick and easy, you just have to be careful in choosing the time you travel and not be too greedy for speed on the roads so as to avoid drawing attention to yourself. Averaging 70mph on a 3 hr hop, with one quick fuel stop, is bloody good for this country. After viewing a house I headed to the south coast, another 150 or so miles. Not quite so quick, as I had to travel during the day, cross the Thames on the Dartford Bridge (bikers don't pay, thanks to MAG campaigning) and then run the gauntlet of the M25, at times arguably the worlds largest car park. I hate motorways and so came off on the A3 only to find that the new Hindhead tunnel, which I heard was officially opened a few weeks ago, wasn't actually open at all although a member of the Royal Family had in fact `opened` it. Well some bugger had re-closed it after they left.

It's a fake!

I crawled through some lovely Surrey countryside but by now I had a need to work some feeling back into my gluteus maximus. Against my principles, I stopped at a McDonalds near Petersfield. I just had a coffee and ate a Crunchie. I sat there watching young mums with that `thousand yard stare`, slumped at various tables, their heads propped up by an arm, as their junior citizens-in-training sort of ran amock, creating a havoc for all the other customers that mum seemed either oblivious or indifferent to. I heeded the McDonalds handy warning that my coffee was hot and braced myself against the mayhem until it was cool enough to drink. Then I was out of that hell hole of hyperactive, indisciplined kids and off down the road, thinking that the brats should have been in the bloody burgers. Shit, am I turning into a Nazi?

I spent 4 days at my son's pad, kindly offered to me whilst he and his gal enjoyed a week on a Greek Island. I had a good time catching up with my daughter and the two grandchildren. It was great meeting the grandson from his morning at pre-school. It was even better when he asked me to meet him the next day, without his mum! I was honoured. Catching up with an old friend, eating fish and chips with him in his caravan and watching "Longitude" on dvd whilst enjoying a Bishops Finger (no Papist jokes please, it's a great English beer) was wonderful.

And so home on Sunday. Thanks to the British Grand Prix at Silverstone, I was diverted through some delightful Northamptonshire villages, some I'd never seen before and some where I used to play the local schools at football during my childhood. It reduced my average speed but improved my state of mind, an excellent trade-off.

Whilst I was away, I couldn't watch news bulletins because they had all been hi-jacked by something called the `News of the World`, a paper that I wouldn't even use to pick up a dog turd. If that's all the world has to offer in the way of `news`, then I was clearly better off on my bike.

Tourists - Please read this road safety warning

2011-07-05T10:18:00.000+01:00

During my recent trip to London I was shocked to see so many tourists stepping out in front of traffic. We drive on the LEFT over here!

Words

2011-07-04T08:54:00.012+01:00

In Flanders fields the poppies blow

Between the crosses, row on row,

That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie,
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

What General Weygand has called the Battle of France is over. I expect that the Battle of Britain is about to begin. Upon this battle depends the survival of Christian civilization. Upon it depends our own British life, and the long continuity of our institutions and our Empire. The whole fury and might of the enemy must very soon be turned on us. Hitler knows that he will have to break us in this island or lose the war. If we can stand up to him, all Europe may be freed and the life of the world may move forward into broad, sunlit uplands.

But if we fail, then the whole world, including the United States, including all that we have known and cared for, will sink into the abyss of a new dark age made more sinister, and perhaps more protracted, by the lights of perverted science. Let us therefore brace ourselves to our duties, and so bear ourselves, that if the British Empire and its Commonwealth last for a thousand years, men will still say, This was their finest hour.

We've over 50 RAF careers. Tell us your age, qualifications and salary expectations and we'll show you what your next move could be.

The Royal Navy isn’t just about ships and submarines. We also fly the world’s most advanced military aircraft, including Harrier fast jets. We also have three types of helicopter – the Merlin, Lynx and Sea King.

I also understand concern over immigration controls. We will put in place strict controls that work. They will be part of our first legislative programme if we are re-elected on May 5. These controls will include the type of points system used in Australia for example to help ensure our economy gets the skills we need.

“The biggest threat that we face comes from terrorist attacks, some of which are, sadly, carried out by our own citizens.”

“The assumption with the Carter years was that it was a failure of the elites, not the system. We thought the people in charge screwed up. We didn’t blame ourselves. Every institution in America has gone through a collapse. The Church is not what it was, thanks to all those religious scandals, the media is much less trusted today than it was 20 or 30 years ago. Big business does not have credibility.”

Firstly you must always implicitly obey orders, without attempting to form any opinion of your own regarding their propriety. Secondly, you must consider every man your enemy who speaks ill of your king; and thirdly you must hate a Frenchman as you hate the devil.

Gentlemen, when the enemy is committed to a mistake we must not interrupt him too soon.

Our country will, I believe, sooner forgive an officer for attacking an enemy than for letting it alone.

and, seeing as it's the 4th of July, I think the last 268 words should go to dear Abe:

Fourscore and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent a new nation, conceived in liberty and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.

Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation or any nation so conceived and so dedicated can long endure. We are met on a great battlefield of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field as a final resting-place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this.

But, in a larger sense, we cannot dedicate, we cannot consecrate, we cannot hallow this ground. The brave men, living and dead who struggled here have consecrated it far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us the living rather to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us -- that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion -- that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain, that this nation under God shall have a new birth of freedom, and that government of the people, by the people, for the people shall not perish from the earth.

London... my London

2011-06-25T13:22:00.004+01:00

A trip to London can be so refreshing. The fact that I was once a sometimes cynical, sometimes prematurely life-weary foot plod of the Metropolitan Police who sometimes took so much of my surroundings slightly for granted, seemed to melt away as I revelled in the magnificence of my country's capital, the place where my parents grew up, worked in, suffered in during the Blitz and raised my sister and I. I was proud of the old place and forgave it the hard times it sometimes gave me.

We were there last weekend and stayed for a few days doing the tourist thing and strolling through the Royal Parks, the Churchill War Rooms museum (part of the Imperial War Museum), Horse Guards Parade, Whitehall, The Embankment, Parliament Square, Trafalgar Square, Buckingham Palace, a stroll across the bridges to the South bank, coffee and croissants with scrambled eggs on toast in the fab bistro near the entrance to The Royal Festival Hall, early dinner in The Ivy then a 2 minute stroll up to Cambridge Circus to see "Priscilla Queen of the Desert" for the second time in 18 months before heading home on Tuesday with first class train tickets and all the salmon sandwitches, tea and cake I could stuff down between Kings Cross/St Pancras and Leeds. (My old English teacher told me that a sentence should always be between fifteen and twentyfive words, but I was on a roll there and just couldn't shut up).

Most of the above were my old stamping grounds during my London years as a police officer and so Mrs HD, with her own personal tour guide, was treated to some of the unseen streets that many tourists will miss, either through ignorance, apprehension about straying `off the beaten track` or time constraints. That is a shame because you can miss out seeing a very different side to the old place. We had a pint in my old local, just down the road from the Roman Catholic Cathederal in Victoria. A haven off the tourist trail by a mere 100 yards which meant it really was a `locals` boozer. I was in a time warp and flawed memories flooded back. The pub had its name changed 3 weeks ago but the refurb it had undergone was so good, so sympathetic to the classic London pub, that I intend to write to the brewery to tell them so.

We strolled back down to Parliament Square and I took my beloved through an arch next to Westminster Abbey and into Deans Yard where we strolled around the cloisters of Westminster School, a peaceful haven where, as a young London Bobby, I would escape for a few precious, peaceful moments during my otherwise bustling tour of duty. It was fascinating to see the pupils of this very expensive public school strutting between classes. We eavesdropped on lecturers corner chit-chats, briefing each other on pupils' progress and `unsuitable` items they had confiscated from Thompkinson-minor during British Constitution. We had a laugh on speculating what these items might have been.

As we strolled across Horseguards Parade I pointed out the back garden of 10 Downing Street and told of freezing winter nights I'd spent pacing up and down waiting for my midnight relief to take over and allow me a blessed 45 minutes in the warmth of Canon Row police station canteen before heading out again to sit on the frost covered garden seat, my legs wrapped in the daily papers in an attempt to keep warm. I had more than just sympathy for what the vagrants of the parks and gardens suffered. There were times I was so cold I doubt I could have aimed my little Walther PP at any would be intruder attempting to scale the wall. If they came over with a flask of hot coffee I'd have been a push over. I chatted with the guys from the Diplomatic Protection Group covering the perimeter and swapped a few yarns. They listened to my ramblings with remarkable politeness and even asked a few questions of me, bless `em, and they still seem to be working the same basic rota I did over 35 years earlier - probably because it worked. There's progress! We shook hands as they headed of for a grub break and we headed off for a cappuchino and a bun.

But for me, the most remarkable object I encountered was at the Royal Observatory, now part of The National Maritime Museum at Greenwich. We stayed in Greenwich on the saturday as we were attending my sisters 60th yes, sixtieth, wedding anniversary. (I'm not that old, I just came late in my parents life!). Greenwich has a village feel about it and there are some great little cafes, bistros and shops and all this within a 20 minute ride from Trafalgar Square. The Royal Observatory is a fantastic place, a beautiful historic building in a wonderful park at the top of a steep hill that, once you've caught your breath, affords a fabulous view across the Thames to the glass towers of commerce beyond. I could almost see our old house in East London from up there. The lavender covered gardens within the Observatory grounds and Flamsteed House, where once strolled the likes of Edmond Halley and Sir Isaac Newton, were a picture. It was such a powerful place, the centre for the study of time and space and the home of the famous Meridian Line that defines East from West.

The significance of time and astronomical studies is something that is so easily dismissed these days, but in the 17th and 18th centuries it was something of a Holy Grail type quest for the need to navigate ships accurately. Sextant-like instruments available to fix positions on the oceans have been around for centuries and early navigators were capable of pinpointing their position fairly accurately, in respect of their latitude (North and South). It was pinning down their position on the East/West or Longitude that eluded them. What was needed was a clock, but not just any clock, it had to be a clock that could not only operate on a heaving ship but one that could be set to a known time so as to back calculate. It also had to be capable of maintaining great accuracy.

The story of the search for Longitude is one that I read a few years ago in this book by Dava Sobel and despite sounding an unlikely subject to be exciting, I found it one of the most touching and remarkable books I have ever picked up, for the incredible story that it told. The below picture is of John Harrison's 4th attempt to create the timepiece desired by the British Government in 1714. There were three that preceded it and they looked nothing like this one and were huge by comparison, albeit remarkable in their detail. Some of the wheels were actually made of wood and the fine work of the movements were almost impossibly beautiful that one marvelled at the fact they were crafted to such fine tolerances in the 1700's. Harrison's story is one of the greatest tales of history.

At about 5" in diameter, Harrison's `4th` is arguably one of the singularly most important and significant objects ever created (after my wife). I stood before this clock and was mesmerised by it and what it meant to the world.

"H4"

Other less significant but still memorable events are shown hereafter:

Lavender in the gardens of the Royal Observatory

Approaching Greenwich Pier

Towards Horseguards Parade from The Duck Bridge, St James's Park

The Pub

A pint of Yorkshire beer, in a London pub?? WTF?

I'll go for a stroll now and contemplate our own future. We appear to have sold our house, after nearly three years of frustration and let downs. Perhaps our time is coming at last. The question now is, "where to next"?

King of the Wild Countreee

2011-06-15T16:43:00.007+01:00

I live in what is described as a quaint, attractive village. It has a number of properties that date from the 13th Century and there are residential properties that have their origins around the late 1500's. Some even have their `Priest's Hole` from times when Roman Catholic Priests were hiding from the authorities. (Wonder what they'd been up to? - again? Huh, priests holes - best have them blocked up for safety's sake, I'd say). So far, this year, there have been four reported crimes in the area, one of which was the theft of a disabled driver`s car badge. We are living on our nerves out here.

But the behaviour of just one or two arsepipes living in this lovely little village has turned me into a predator, a hunter, a man so ruthless that my recent exploits (known only to a very small, select group of local people) are said to rival those highwaymen and villains of English Folklore that once prowled the country. I'm not talking of the likes of `Dick Turpin of Hounslow Heath`, `Sir Wilfred Death of Cumberland` or even `Mad Gerald of Chipping Sodbury`, oh no, my antics are said to exceed even those of that most feared of all ancient Britons (and small parted Black Adder villain), yes I am now spoken of as the reincarnation of `Unspeakably Violent Jack, the bull-buggering beast killer of no fixed abode`. Why? You may well ask. Read on.

For the last 6 months we have been plagued by a night stalker. He entered our house whilst we were asleep. On those occasions when our Jack Rascal Terrorist was a bit slow on the uptake (kipping on the job) he even managed to get upsstairs. He peed where he wanted to and attacked our two gals - yes he was a bloody un-neutered tom cat. After washing down the walls and floor with biological washing powder we managed to eradicate the stink, but of course this wasn't tackling the problem at source because this guy was totally hormone driven which, as those of us with hormones know, over rides all other instinct. We needed to nail those hormones, or in this case cut the buggers off. As I used to say in my previous career, we need to stop getting all out of breath fighting alligators and become swamp drainage engineers instead. I am an animal lover, I love dogs, like cats, watch birds and all the wildlife I can clap my eyes on, but I will quickly fall out with any of the aforementioned if it wakes me up, breaks into my house and pisses on my furniture and this ginger devil had done this once too often, so I got to work.

Like all good plans one first needs to gather all the information one can and so I appointed an `Intelligence Officer` - that was me. I conducted house to house enquiries, starting with the nearest first. In a matter of an hour I had discovered that this anti-social behaviour had been going on for over a year and over almost a quarter mile radius. Neighbours I was previously just on nodding terms with, regaled me with horror stories involving their cats being attacked and injured and their homes similarly violated. All of the feline victims had become nervous wrecks and their previously idyllic lifestyle had turned into one of constant vigilance through fear of surprise attack. Several hundred pounds worth of veterinary bills had also been incurred and these poor folks were approaching that sad place known as `wit's end`. My enquiries then took me to our local parish councillor, whom I know well. He informed me that he had been at `wit's end` himself for some time over this but gave me a useful piece of intelligence. (Note: `intelligence` is different from `information`).

There was a problem `couple` in our community.

I said `couple` but this pair divorced, but then applied for, and were granted, a council flat each, next door to each other. They continued to socialise together, drinking in the local pubs and catching the bus into town for shopping trips. Try as I might, the thought of me socialising with my ex wife is not something that even my vivid imagination can conjure up, so I just wonder what the hell that is all about? Anyone got any ideas? Is it a fiddle of some sort? Do asylum seekers or illegal immigrants get this sort of service as well? Anyhow, this odd non-couple ( basically a villain and his ex who managed to grow old) encouraged cats from all over by throwing out food scraps, including chicken bones and carcasses, into the grounds of their accommodation and turned once beautifully kept gardens into something the councillor described as a tip. Cats multiply and become a recipe for local discord, not to mention the damage and distress caused to the poor bloody cats themselves, scavanging for food from all and sundry. When challenged by council officers these wasters deny ownership, but all the information points to them being responsible - and there it stops. Despite the tenancy agreement restricting them to one `pet` they have created, by their irresponsible behaviour, a growing pack of semi-feral felines and despite the existence of the councils enforcement officers, `nothing can be done`, at least by the council, that is.

My next step was to contact the RSPCA for advice. I left telephone messages and sent e mails, but not a word did I hear from the great society. 2 months later, still nothing, not even an acknowledgement. So RSPCA gets my thumbs down. I then contacted Cats Protection and they were kind enough to provide me with advice, a cat trap and a friendly local vet's address. All I had to do was trap the beast and convey him to the vet where they'd scan him for an i/d chip, blood test him and do the necessary. Doddle.

D-Day, 2245hrs. The trap was placed in the garden and baited. None of your cheapo cat grub for this Mr Tinkles. He was going to be seduced by the aroma of a single, glistening Glenryk Pilchard in tomato sauce MMMmmm, so irresistable I almost helped myself. I locked up our catflap to keep our own two hungry buggers away from the fishy treat and then got ready for bed, but before I'd even stripped off there was the metallic clank of a cell door slamming shut and lo, there was my prey, a strapping, spitting cussing ginger Tom. I covered up the trap and placed it in the garage so he could settle down with his last pilchard at my expense. 9am the next day and I was walking through the door of the vet. Cats Protection was covering the cost. Five hours later and I received a call to my mobile. The vet nurse broke the news gently, that crazy red was no more. Sadly, he had tested positive for FIV (feline AIDS) and was put to sleep. A sad end. When I collected the trap the vet told me about this nasty infection and I told him the history of the recently departed Mr Tom. He told me that it was possible all the other cats in his hareem would be infected, said that I had done our little community a big service and asked if I could catch a few more as they posed a risk to all the other domestic cats. Personally, I'd had enough and returned the trap and collected my safety deposit. We had undisturbed sleep every night for the next two weeks, but that ended abruptly last Sunday.

Our village, as expected, has several `Sons of Ginge` because at 2am the Jack Rascal, on the job and alert this time, stood-to and his woofin` and a snarlin` jolted us awake. We staggered out of bed into the hall, just as a younger version of the raider of the lost ark flew down the stairs and dived through the catflap, pursued by the JRT intent on...something....but we would never know what because no self respecting cat gets caught by a dog and certainly not one with legs as short as ours. I expected this might happen, I just didn't think it would be so soon. He must have been on previous raids as the masters apprentice. Thankfully there was no pee spraying this time and the next morning I was back onto to Cat Protection for another loan of a trap. Two nights ago, at 0300hrs to be precise, the young pretender went the same way as his late relative, straight for the pilchard (in tomato sauce) and thereafter into captivity. The next day I went in to the garage and saw that he was a cute little guy, a wee bit scared and a lot bit feisty. Down the vets we went and again I waited for the phone call. It came at 4.30pm. He tested negative so they whipped his nuts off but would have to hand him back to me and I in turn would have to release him from whence he came because although he had no owner, there was no way he could be re-homed by either me, Cat Protection (who were full to overflowing) or anywhere else, for I had also tried to rustle up a home for these poor creatures I was nabbing. I took him down a leafy lane near to where he hung out and opened the cage. He trotted up the lane and straight into the grounds of his council flats, better off for his experience and a few ounces lighter. Un-neutered tom cats have a life expectancy of less than five years due to fighting over territory, so at least he won't have that to worry about.

My grateful neighbours have bought me thank you cards and I even got a nice bottle of Italian wine. I got no satisfaction over this, I just feel sorry for the cats. As for the two wasters who caused all this trouble over a wide area, they neither know nor care what's been happening, or how they have cost good people a lot of time and money taking injured cats to the vets, possibly having been infected with FIV and how, once again, someone else puts in the effort and picks up the tab whilst they complain to the council about how long its taking to have their roof re-tiled and double glazing fitted. But at least I dont live near these diseases.

My son sent me a text message today saying, "Hey Dad, you're getting good at this cat trapping, you should start a business". My reply: "I'm having the next one made into a hat. Just call me `Kitty Crockett`.

Caravan

2011-06-13T10:27:00.001+01:00

I'm concerned that I might be getting a bit soft in my older age.

Travelling across the hilly, moorish bit in the middle of northern England yesterday, I found myself amongst a group of terrorists. I think they belonged to something called, "The Popular Front For the Grinding to a Halt of Half the Country" who I believe are afilliated to the "8am to 9am School Run Road Obstruction so I don't have to walk a mile" sect, but the cunning bastards I encountered appear to go by the pseudonym of the `Happy Wanderer's Car a` Van Club`.

They trapped us as we accidentally infiltrated their, "Let's go and fuck up Cumbrian Roads" June weekend rally. After circling the wagons, they spent a weekend of whist drives, quiz competitions and lectures from Auntie Cissy Turner on such things as `a hundred and one things you can do with a primus stove` and `billy cans I have known and loved`. There may have even been a bit of key swapping for all I know, but I'm trying to supress that thought. One of these plastic portaloos-on-wheels was sporting lots of badges including, "!GOLD MEDAL! HWCC Chemical toilet emptying competition, 1998" and "Winner - `Park the van without waking the granny` competition, Pendine Sands, 1976". We were impressed to be amongst such company, I can tell you.

It was when we were chugging along behind it, and several of its fellow senior members, on the winding, undulating A65.... at 25mph.....with seventy miles ahead of us, that my new strategic plan came to me. These people need regulating for their own good, to save them from being cursed by every law abiding motorist - and gypsies - as well as to protect them from random physical attack. I'm serious, I mean heaven knows what might have happened had I still had access to my trusty Remington 800 pump action shotgun and several cases of 00 Buckshot? - Just saying.

My fantasy legislation was drafted as follows:

1. All Car a`Vans to be subjected to a congestion charge whenever they set rubber on the highway. The charge is `per road` travelled, not per journey - the smaller the road, the bigger the charge.
2. They may only be allowed on the roads between 2am and 5am. If they are seen on the road outside these hours the police can, after removing the occupants, torch the van either on the spot or at a location to be decided based on local necessity. Alternatively, it can be donated to a charity that supplies shelters to African bush communities.
3. Owner to be billed for lighter fuel, matches and removal of the ash, in lieu of shipping costs to Malawi etc.
4. Car a`Van site must not blight the landscape.

I got home and had a couple of cold ones then re-thought this. Maybe I let my emotions run out of control? Maybe I was acting in haste? Maybe I was a little harsh in the first draft? Was I going soft in having the occupants removed before torching the van? Am I just over-reacting? I don't know what to think anymore? This really tested my humanity and I found it wanting. I'm ashamed.

Back to the Future (where everything is beautiful)

2011-06-07T10:35:00.001+01:00

I'm getting really worried about some of the brawling, hapless, hopeless excuses for humans that I had to extricate from each others punches and threats and whose various offspring I removed to places of safety and notified social services about and who, in turn, `did their best for the family` in their aftercare visits.....[pauses for breath]. I'm getting worried because those of them who are still alive and most likely still screaming and kicking, probably have grandchildren who, taking a lead from their parents on what constitutes the building blocks of childcare, are as likely as not repeating much of the same. It makes me wonder that if one of them gets killed in a DV incident, will I suddenly turn up in the enquiry and get the blame for not castrating one of their ancestors when I had the chance?

Based on the sound bite attention grabbing headlines of, `murder "could have been prevented?"` referring to the latest tragedy to knock poison cucumbers and FIFA off the front pages, I may well be up for some sort of investigation. There's plenty to choose from amongst all the domestic violence jobs I went to, where I separated warring parties, slung partners out of their own abodes, whisked kids into the police station for safe keeping, took pages of statements only to find a half page one, withdrawing all allegations, waiting in my in-tray a few days later. All the poor lost, mainly female, souls I pleaded with to take a grip of their life, take the advice I could give and to be strong and walk away, knowing that it was a hell of a thing to do but in the forefront of my mind knowing that even if I got the violent bastard locked up, it wouldn't be forever and there was always a chance he'd come looking for her when he was released. Knowing that she couldn't pay for a private security firm and that I couldn't be posted outside her house for the rest of my service or until the ex died, didn't seem to sink in. It could have been heartbreaking had i let it get to me. As it was it was always a serious concern and, like many of my peers and doubtless todays officers, I probably took home more worries about domestics I'd attended than most other types of job because, even though you knew you'd done pretty much everything you could do, a lot was left to chance, including the ultimate plight of the victim. I wonder how many lives a pop star with multi-million £ assets could save if she set up a charity that paid for minders for women under threat of attack from their violent partners/ex partners?

In my latter years in the police I was amazed at how much more detail was being gathered in respect of domestic violence and of the multi-agency strategies and councils with their own DV officers. It is no surprise when one considers that with the `modern` police service having intelligence led strategy as its main driver, that this should be so. I was not amazed to see the setting up of dedicated DV units because, based on the previous comment, if you want to predict where the next murder or violent assault is coming from, your stats will tell you that domestic violence is a good place to start looking. But I'm not sure things are any better in respect of the root causes and the basic commodity you are dealing with. I'll conclude this little piece by quoting from a comment I left on one of Inspector Hobbes's posts recently. It relates to one of my first encounters with a case of domestic abuse.

I recall my first week at a busy London station (Deptford aka "Dirty Deptford", "Fort Apache, SE8" etc etc). A young woman of Carib origin came in and rattled off several sentences in patois so strong that, because of my greenness, my ears weren't attuned to it. The Sgt advised me that she was saying, `me man beat me then he sex me` - essentially a rape allegation of sorts. She was interviewed by a female officer and flatly refused to either be examined or to make a complaint. What she expected, as a recently arrived resident in the UK, was the sort of help she would get from her former local police force in Jamaica, that being the local cops to get hold of the boyfriend, whisper advice in his shell like and then beat seven shades of excrement out of him to drive home the message. She went on to explain that in domestic disputes the same sort of treatment was metered out, only to both parties.

Naturally, London's finest were not going to do that and she left the station disgusted at our indifference to her pleas for justice.

I wonder now, on looking back over my own record of dealing with domestic violence incidents (nobody ended up killing anyone) if we are failing to face up to the truth of the matter and trying to baffle nature with science, or maybe we just have the science all wrong, or maybe the Jamaican police knew a thing or two about human nature?

Sixty Seven Years

2011-06-06T08:33:00.001+01:00

Thank you.

Riding the Dragon

2011-06-04T17:20:00.001+01:00

So now we have ground attack helicopters operating over Libya. The news channels will be full of it for the next 24 hours I expect. Something new to talk about and some different footage to show off on television. So, I thought I'd do a little post about what I know of these Apache helicopters, from my own research after I first saw the early version demonstrated by an amazing American pilot at the Army Air Corps HQ in Middle Wallop, Hampshire way back in 1982 and from my reading of a couple of excellent books by a highly decorated British Army pilot, Ed Macy. Both his books, "Apache" and "Hellfire" are a truly gripping and fascinating read. The skill and bravery of the teams who crew and support this aircraft fills one with pride and admiration.

The Apache is an ugly spud and has been around a long time, but its latest and most deadly version, the AH64D, only came into service with the US in 1998 although, as I briefly mentioned, I watched one fly many years earlier when providing very heavy and very armed security at an Army Aviation open day. America was very cagey about selling this beastie to anyone other than those it considered its closest allies. Now it is operated by Israel, The Netherlands, Saudi Arabia, Singapore, Egypt, Greece, Japan, Kuwait and the UAE. So what is the story behind the UK getting its hands on this remarkable aircraft? The following is in Ed Macy's own words, from his first book, "Apache":

"In 1998 the AH64D came into service. It was even deadlier; 400 per cent more lethal (hitting more targets) and 720 per cent more survivable than its predecessor. The most significant addition was the state of the art Longbow Radar which could operate in all weathers, day or night, simultaneously detect 1,024 potential targets, moving or static, up to eight kilometers away, classify the top 256 and display the sixteen most threatening for destruction - all in three seconds. Twenty five seconds later, every one of those targets could be destroyed by a single Apache's Hellfires (guided missiles). A squadron of eight AH64D's working in unison could terminate 128 tanks in 28 seconds - just by raising one Apache Longbow Radar above the tree or ridge line for a few seconds. They christened it `fire and forget`.

In the late 1990's the British Government finally decided it needed them too. As a nation we didn't have an attack helicopter capability, just a few Lynx squadrons armed with a couple of TOW anti-tank missiles strapped to the side of each craft. Despite its cutting edge design and astonishingly powerful Longbow, the AH64D still had a few ongoing shortcomings. They couldn't operate off ships and they weren't powerful enough to carry a significant amount of ammunition and fuel at the same time. To fly them at low level meant heavy anti aircraft fire could still bring them down.

Our generals approached the government with an ambitious plan. Why didn't we buy Boeing's Apache shell, keep the good bits and make the rest even better ourselves? The boffins at Westland Helicopters went to work. The most important change was two Rolls Royce RTM 322 engines. Each churned out more than twice the brake horsepower of a Formula One racing car, giving our model 30 per cent more power than the American AH64D. It allowed us to fly further, higher and fight with more weapons.

The Brits also scoured the globe for the best countermeasures and built them into the worlds most sophisticated defensive aide suite. It allowed pilots to take the the aircraft above small arms range, which downed 95 per cent of all military helicopters, and into the previously lethal surface to air missile (SAM) belt - because the British Apache could now defeat surface to air missiles. They also added a folding blade mechanism so we could operate off aircraft carriers in confined space; an automatic de-icer built into the blades so we could fight in the Arctic; Saturn radios so highly encrypted that their transmissions couldn't be decoded by any intercept; new motors for the CRV7 rockets, making them faster and more accurate; and a unique health monitoring system which enabled the aircraft to automatically diagnose any problems through dozens of microscopic sensors.

The UK bought sixty seven of Westland's finished article for a cool £46 million each - making the Apache AH Mk1 the second most expensive British aircraft ever made, behind the £62 million Eurofighter Typhoon. The whole Apache project set the MoD back £4.13 billion. On paper, the British Apache was the most expensive - and best - attack helicopter in aviation history. For once, even the Americans were jealous. All the Army needed to do now was find the pilots to fly their new creation. And that was the most challenging part of all".

I could reproduce more from Ed's book but I need a break from copy typing and I want to post this up and have a beer. If anyone would like a little bit more of a taster, leave a comment and I'll see what I can do, but before I sign off I just wanted to say that I felt the MoD did a pretty darned good job in acquiring Apaches for our Army. When one reads about some of the other supply debacles one tends to overlook the good bits. But we've only deployed eight and we only have one ship that can do what is currently being done out there in the Med, off the Libyan coast. That is something that HMG and the MoD still have to look at, long and hard.

And a footnote to this post: I've just had a text from Mrs HD, who doesn't know I'm tapping this out, to say Ed Macy is currently being interviewed on BBC Radio 4 about the Apache deployment in Libya - now how spooky is that?

Empire of the Clouds? (aka `those were the days`)

2011-06-01T12:05:00.003+01:00

Gulf War veteran (made in 1950's and still nifty)

God does fly a Fairey Gannet>

Mosquito under restoration>

Look! Improved accomodation for officers!! >>

Cheer Yourselves Up

2011-05-30T16:54:00.002+01:00

I had my jaw open for the entire song........priceless.

A Peek Down the Tubes?

2011-05-28T11:38:00.011+01:00

Following on from my last two pictorial posts, I came across this site having recently read a great book about post WW2 British Aviation.

Are these some of `the tubes` down which my country started to disappear?

Meanwhile, on the other side of the pond, a great Naval aviator sets a high bench mark in integrity, leadership, professionalism and some serious backbone. Oh that others we could all probably name could even summon up the courage to just say `sorry`.

With acknowlegment to Neptunus Lex who ran the original post. (You have to have a keen eye to spot the `flaw` that made this Commander rest himself).

Hot Duxford Shots, Part Deux (The return of the Brits)

2011-05-25T11:18:00.001+01:00

And for all you Spitfire lovers, here's a link to a guy who has a really, really good camera:

Duxford Warbirds

2011-05-24T17:57:00.002+01:00

Legend has it that this Vulcan out turned an F15 at high altitude....and later put a furrow in the desert, out of Nellis, with a wingtip....probly the usual pilot BS

Up the In-Junction

2011-05-23T18:47:00.007+01:00

""So Mr X, in my expert legal opinion, the sort of injunction you require is based on the exact circumstances of the damning information you wish to suppress.

Let me keep it simple. If neither of you were actually `gagging for it`, but you both eventually persuaded each other that you were up for it, and this was with mutual consent, then this would require a basic application known in the trade as a ` basic non-gagging gagger`. I assume there was consent? To be otherwise from the lady's perspective would put you into a whole different ball game and I'd have to refer you to one of our partners specialising in criminal cases.

If she was gagging for it (it is a `she` isn't it? Oh, pity that. Never mind) and you initially weren't, but were persuaded to participate either through persistence or the use of the old beer goggle persuader, this would require a Grade 2 Injunction, known to us in the business as the `half-gagging, mister arm-twister, gagger` .

From here on in it does become a little more technical. If she was gagging for it and you didn't care either way, but you took a chance that you'd probably get away without your wife/girlfriend/boyfriend/significant other finding out and by then were too drunk/horny to care, then we could probably go for the `gagging for it shit-or-buster`.

But from what you have told me, we have a serious case of her gagging for it, you gagging for it, you not worrying if you'd get caught or having been promised by the other party that she would remain schtum but then her reneging on the deal or as it's sometimes called, `doing a Red Top` (did you get this deal in writing? No? oh dear) well in that case we`ll have to go straight to what we call the "Hello Max, Cliff-hanger". Oh she's already talking in public? R i g h t. Well then it really is the biggy for you and in this case it will have be what is now known as the `Mega gagging double-shagger-gagger`", but by the time we get the paperwork together you'll probably be reading about it in The Stun"".

Are We There Yet?

2011-05-22T13:37:00.004+01:00

(The end of the world, that is)

I'm going to give it another 24 hours before I comment, just in case Kenneth Clark's frantic detractors manage to call up the Mighty Rearranger......

48 hours in England

2011-05-10T10:52:00.001+01:00

Every time I feel cheesed off, I jump on one of my motorbikes or my bicycle and just sort of ride around.

A few snaps from places I've visited and things I've seen over the last 48 hours.

So glad I quit my job.

Reasonable use of reasonable force

2011-05-04T18:27:00.005+01:00

I don't intend going into my own feelings over the Tomlinson Inquest verdict beyond a couple of observations as an old fart (albeit one who can still run a good few miles, if he so chooses and wishes to damage his knees, which he doesn't any more and so cycles instead) especially as the blogosphere will have far more places for folks to feast their eyes on and seek opinions far more interesting than mine.

Most of the country's `eyes on the police pulse` seem to go here for starters. I've read this post and seem to recall a slightly different stance from when the incident first came to light, which is understandable with the benefit of hindsight and other more relevant circumstantial and other grades of evidence. Gadget makes a valid point about this country not being a police state. Ironically it is actually only the police itself who makes it so. When one sees the type, scope and weight of legislation that has been heaped upon us over almost a decade and a half one cannot point the finger of blame on creating a police state at the poor bloody infantry.

As for the push/ shove/ baton blow to poor Ian Tomlinson, Gadget points out that he was five times over the legal limit, had a diseased liver and a heart complaint. Well unless Nu Labour slipped a few more statutes under my radar whilst I was abroad or looking the other way, being in possession of a dicky heart and knackered liver are not criminal offences and, as the late Mr Tomlinson was walking and not driving at the time, he was crime free on the blood/alcohol count too. I know that all of that is used to mitigate the outcome and, from my own sight of the videos, a push/shove or baton strike to the legs would not be likely to result in the death of a reasonably fit and healthy man, even of my age, but nobody knew he was in poor shape and he certainly wasn't giving off signs that he was a handful of trouble. What Inspector G was arguing was, I think, that the outcome was out of proportion to the perceived necessary action. So what does it boil down to? The question of necessary and reasonable force. Ian Tomlinson did not appear to present such a threat to public order or safety that would justify more than the mildest of reasonable force ie; "Move along now, nothing to see here, keep moving, there's a nice old intoxicated liver-diseased chap with a dicky ticker - off you go, that way". The officer responsible has that to work on for his defence, plus the fact that he did not know the frail state of the deceased at the time. He did not intend to kill, of that I'm sure, but death was the outcome and although death could have been brought about in a variety of ways, it happened the way it did, it doesn't look right and it doesn't look nice.

And this is where I make my final comment. I was once given the job of reporting on the most suitable baton to replace the traditional police truncheon. I was presenting my findings to a group of officers of ACPO (very senior) ranks and during my presentation I demonstrated the telescopic baton, sometimes referred to by the name of one of the first manufacturers `ASP`(Armament Systems and Procedures). As the innocuous looking device in its closed state was suddenly racked up to reveal a shiny 21" of aircraft grade aluminium Jedi Sword, an assistant chief constable gasped, "Jesus, if you hit someone on the head with that you'll kill him". My reply was, "We are not supposed to aim for heads with truncheons, even the old ones could kill with a head strike". I then demonstrated OC (pepper) spray. The same ACC then said, "Well if you spray someone with a bad heart or asthma with that you could kill them". My reply to that was simply this, "People with bad hearts or asthma shouldn't take on the police then, should they"? My point being that if someone is combatative, beligerent or obstructive then hands-on force or greater, reasonable and proportionate, is usually justifiable. Ian Tomlinson maybe thought he was `taking on` the police in his own way, but from what we've all seen, neither ASP, Taser or chemical munitions should appear on the list of force options, whether he had a diseased liver, dicky ticker or been drunk in charge of a pair of old legs - or not.

Addendum after a night's sleep: I see a conviction coming, but one of common assault. But maybe I was dreaming

Don't Blame the Pakistanis

2011-05-03T08:59:00.001+01:00

Good news that the worlds most wanted has been done. Living proof that some nations do take out the `Bins` on a Bank Holiday weekend. Funny how the Pakistanis couldn't find him - a 6`7" tall arab in a 5`6" neighbourhood? Still, dressing up as a woman and going by the name of Sammy-Lyn Barden whilst working in the Kwik-E- Mart at the army college next door to the 4 storey blockhouse that sprang up in the middle of town without planning permission from the local council could fool anyone I suppose. Just glad they were able to take billions of dollars to help in the fight. And people in glass houses shouldn't throw stones. I hear the Irish SAS missed him when they raided Debenhams after a tip-off that summer bed linen was on the third floor. And my spies tell me we missed Adolf a few times befor MI5 located him, as re-created in the below epic. Its a good life ain't it?

Life before "Bullitt"

2011-04-26T10:06:00.001+01:00

I'd like to have seen Steve McQueen's famous car chase deal with this little street of San Francisco - allegedly shot 4 days before the massive quake, April 18th, 1906

What old bikers/ex cops talk about (occasionally)

2011-04-23T11:19:00.001+01:00

Had an email from my old biker pal today. We were cops together, have ridden in America together (where I nudged him off in a very low (walking) speed shunt at a junction in Monterey - pure accident, I insisted) and we share the jolly pleasures of motorcycling. He's ridden from here to Morocco and south into the African boonies, up to the bit in the road where armed men demand bribes to allow you to carry on - he turned for home at that point - pussy.

I hate seeing the things I love being abused on public roads and pissing people off. We occasionally swap yarns, as we now live 250 miles apart. Thought I'd share:

Hi Hogday,

Out on the bike yesterday afternoon. Stopped at ******* (you know the café!) Some eejut on a GSXR1000 Looked at my bike then asked me if I ever fell off it! I told him I had dropped every bike I had ever owned except for the Hondas (don’t ask me why – luck of the draw I suppose).

Next question – when did you drop this one then. Reply – dropped it twice. Once taking it off the main-stand having just put 8 gallons of fuel in it. Forecourt was at a slope so over it went. Couldn’t you just hold it up, he asked. Obviously never felt the weight of 8 gallons of fluid – especially with a BMW attached to it. Next time at a junction. Woman in front starts to pull out, then stalls. I slam on the brakes and stop about a foot behind her, just getting my foot down in time. Bloke behind me in a transit van (red, not white) can’t stop so goes up my outside with wheels locked and gives the offside pannier a little nudge with the van as he slides past. Down I go on the nearside, very slowly but down nonetheless. Woman in front starts her engine and drives off, leaving me on the deck and the van sideways across the road. Helpfully he stays in the van and stares at me because he knows this will help me pick the bike up. Driver behind him gets out and does help me to pick the bike up. Damage? Scratch the nearside crash bar. Nothing else.

"Have you ever fell off that bike", I ask.

He says ‘Haven’t had it long. I got it when my Fireblade was written off.’ "How did that happen", I ask. ‘Motorway slip road,’ he says. ‘I was having a real positive ride. I was doing about 140 into the slip road when the traffic lights at the roundabout suddenly went to red. I tried to stop but the road surface was too rippled by the lorries so I got thrown off and the bike smashed into the back of a car. I was bloody furious.’

He smiled as he looked at my bike. ‘I wonder if I’ll want a battle bus like that when I get old.’

‘You won’t’ I reply.

‘You never know, lot’s of old boys like them.’

‘You misunderstand me,’ I say. ‘What I mean is, you won’t get old.’

He was still looking puzzled when he rode off.

My Reply:
Hi Mate. That made I larrf!

There was a fatal rta half a mile up the road from here on Tuesday afternoon. Curiously, I had been out on the Hog, nearby, at about that time but something clicked in my noggin and i chose to approach home from a back road, so I missed all the fun, although I did see the air ambo's swoop in and out. The road in question is a 60 limit, undulating and with generally sweeping bends, a couple of which give you no road vis beyond about 50 yards until you pass the apex. If you ride this road at the legal limit (60) you wouldn't spill your Jim Beam on the rocks, let alone get out of shape. I've driven a friend down it, at 60, I was dropping him off at a local council meeting about all the bikes and cars going through the farmers hedges. He'd previously asked me my opinion on the agenda item that was urging a `re-engineering` of the road. I'd even set the cruise control at 60 to make a point! I then asked him what he thought was dangerous about what we'd just done - there was nothing. I suggested that it was hardly an engineering problem but rather more of a law enforcement one. I told him that in my opinion there is only one safe overtake spot on the entire 3 mile stretch for a well positioned and set up car, which happens to be on a downhill stretch through a long `S` bend. Yet some ex biker, ex alive person managed to prang with a car in broad daylight at 3pm on a weekday. Judging from the eye-witness report to me later that evening, across a garden fence, the bike was half its size, the rider stuck in the hedge/tree and the car totalled. Mustn't be too judgmental though as I haven't seen the AI report ;)

I wondered if it was the bloke/girl on a Suzuki Bandit that careered up my nearside into a roundabout at the end of said stretch of road last week. Left lane is painted Left turn only, supplemented by a road sign showing, in big black play-school-drawings-for-dummies that the left is left and the right lane is for right or straight on. I'm on the Hog, I roll into the roundabout then signal left as I'm heading straight on. The bandit on the Bandit accelerates past me on the nearside and then continues in a `threepenny bit` wobble turn right around the front of me, just at the point when you roll upright to power out. I had rolled off the gas because my imaginary friend had whispered in my ear that there was a dick about. He was right. I just had time to notice its brand new jacket and brand new boots as it flashed across my bows. No sweat because I'd spotted the antics in time. Another love-child of direct access speeds blindly towards the next world? Or maybe he was just a ***t.

Spent yesterday evening in the garden, sipping a cold vino Rose and listening to the distant howling of Suzuki's, Honda's and Kwaks of the day's, thus-far, survivors who were trying to make it home.

Cheers for now Mate.

Epilogue:
I hate it when someone decent meets their maker before their "3 score and 10" although in my case I hope improvements to our diet and healthy living makes this at least `4 score and 20`. I dealt with a lot of death on the roads in my time. I nearly always felt a pang of sorrow for the bereaved, at the very least, especially when it could have all been avoided, but those sort of clocks can't be turned back.

Back to my reality

2011-04-18T08:58:00.012+01:00

Its remarkable what a mere 6 days away can do for you, if you get the right place with the right company. My first trip to the Costa del Sol was not a bad experience at all. For starters, when we arrived it was 10 degrees warmer than the UK and got better as the days went by. The Spanish drivers are not the mad charging bull baiters I was led to believe, at least not in the relative mildness of 24C sunshine. Our 45 minute drive from Malaga airport to Nerja made driving on a typical British motorway seem like driving whilst surrounded by Barbarian Hordes.

The food was great (if you avoided places advertising "full English breakfasts served here"), the drinks were pretty cheap, the local wine delicious and the locals exceedingly friendly. We ate out in open air restaurants up in the surrounding villages, with stunning open terraces overlooking an azure blue Meditereanean Sea. Didn't see a single submarine launched cruise missile burst out of the Med, so I presumed they were all well out, beyond our horizon. We went to the local cultural centre and saw a top Flamenco artiste and her 8 piece supporting band of musicians. This was not your mass produced tourist affair as it was attended almost entirely by the indigenous and it was utterly stunning.

I found myself feeling relatively relaxed about being surrounded by other humans and this feeling remained until the moment we stepped off our returning aircraft into the arrivals area of our local airport, where once again our ears were assaulted by the squabbling, `effing and cussing of your returning lobster coloured, larded-up Brit tourist family. I hate myself for being so judgmental, but that really was how it hit me.

Cat of the Sierra Nevada's

Hell of a Paella pan.

Best table in the place

Nerja cats getting fed

People are very fit in this town

A stoop to be proud of

A nice walk down to the coffe bar for croissants. Not a `Full English Breakfast` in sight

Pampaneira, where the air is thin and the tourists not quite so

Life is risky, so lets tighten up civil litigation

2011-03-30T10:39:00.003+01:00

Believe it or not, I endured some seriously hard training in my recruit indoctrination into the Metropolitan Police Force, albeit they didn't give me a gun for at least 2 years. The idea was that you ought to know how it felt when you came up against violence. Not all recruits had the benefit of experiencing playground fights as kids or played rugby. In the Met Cadets we boxed, wrestled and judo'd. Those joining directly from `civvy` life may have had similar experiences, but a lot hadn't and so the training process saw to it that by the time you hit the streets of London you knew what it felt like to have had the crap knocked out of you in an allegedly controlled environment. That way, the first smack on the jaw you took, wouldn't make you jibber and weep (providing it didn't lay you out).

For cadets, “Milling” was compulsory as a warm up to self defence training. Oversized boxing gloves, step into the ring and, on the whistle, you had 45 seconds to flatten your oppo or defend yourself; ideally, you'd do both. Anyone seen pulling his punches would do a round with the instructor (ex Royal Marine boxing champion and killer of bulls with bare hands). Not so in todays more academically oriented `service`, as, presumably, we mustn’t make anyone cry - until they get into the Public Order Units that is, but I believe they have Red Men these days. However, it probably made men out of us (and some of our wives too). It is a well known fact that for training to be effective it must be realistic and to generate realism takes a lot of care and attention to avoid an excess of pain.

Maybe I was lucky, but I never sustained anything more serious than a bloody nose or bruised ribs during my time as an average boxer in the cadets. If I had done so, would my employers have been liable? After all, I was participating in a sport which I had volunteered for. Had I been seriously hurt during the above mentioned `Milling` which wasn't optional, but where the gloves were oversize and therefore not as effective as those used in competion in the ring, what would have been different? I doubt if this type of training is even talked about now, let alone practised, especially as I was mildly chastised by a sergeant for doing press-ups alongside a 25 yr old recruit to try and encourage him to dig a little deeper. Apparantly, my telling him I was 41 was humiliating him although I knew him outside the gym and he felt the whole thing ridiculous. The firearms training my guys and gals went through was equally realistic. We used a clinical psychologist to help us get the trainees into a high state of `tension arousal` before we started the exercises, to ensure they could experience working under stress. Its a tough call and great care is needed, but I would argue that if it wasn't done and an officer suffered in a real situation for lack of preparation then the employer would be very much at fault.

I feel terrible for the poor family of this trainee. He was a former soldier so no doubt had combat training experience and as likely as not some real action under his belt.I recently had the shocking experience of studying my own medical history and I was shocked at how much violence I had been subjected to over my 30 year police career, much of it I'd forgotten, and this was just the stuff that I sought medical assistance for. A lot of the knocks are just accepted as par for the course, but I was very grateful for the training I'd been given..

Ok, thats it from me for a wee while. We're trying to go to Spain again, this time virus free (when we last checked). If you're on the Costa del Sol and see a bloke in a Red Man suit sipping a vino tinto, leave him alone. TTFN

Legacy?

2011-03-29T14:56:00.006+01:00

Is it just me, or is there a striking resemblance here?

Semper Fidelis

2011-03-23T17:10:00.001Z

We tend not to get any good follow-up coverage beyond the headlines of "US fighter going down over Libya" and the bigger, shock-horror headlines of some unfortunate Libyan, pro-West civvies copping some cautionary fire as they rather rashly rushed towards the crash site and the justifiably nervy pilot and his weapons oppo. The below cut and paste is courtesy of "Neptunus Lex" (see my Blogroll column on the right).

Shortly after midnight, a pair of AV-8B Harrier jump-jets launched from the USS Kearsarge and rendezvoused over the crash site with a circling fighter jet, who by then had made contact with one of the F-15 crew members—the pilot—on the ground.
In parallel, two MV-22 Ospreys—specialized aircraft that can take off and land vertically like a helicopter but can fly as fast as a fixed-wing aircraft—prepared to launch from the Kearsarge.
And a force of more than three dozen Marines boarded two CH-53E helicopters to provide security for the rescue mission, known in military parlance as a “tactical recovery of aircraft and personnel.”
With the Ospreys and helicopters en route, the Harriers dropped two 500-pound laser-guided bombs near the crash site in what a senior Marine officer described as a “precautionary” measure to warn off people who might have been approaching the aviator on the ground.
“My understanding is [the pilot] asked for ordnance to be delivered in between where he was located and where he saw people coming toward him,” said a senior Marine officer, citing preliminary reports.
The Ospreys reached the pilot’s location by 2:19 a.m. local time. While the helicopters hovered overhead, one of the Ospreys landed to recover the him. The Ospreys returned to the Kearsarge with the F-15 pilot aboard by 3 a.m. local time.

I have to say that 2 x 500lb laser guided bombs is one hell of a `warning shot`, but with arguably the best JTac calling the co-ordinates (the downed pilot) that and the rescue Op was a top piece of work. I'm sure they would have done exactly the same for a downed British crew, because I'm not sure we had the same level of resources immediately available. So a big salute from me to the United States Marine Corps, their awesome kit and those jolly nifty Harriers they use (I wonder if we should have some of those?).

Further reading.

The Elephant in the tent

2011-03-22T08:59:00.010Z

I was as amused, as much as Mrs Hogday was infuriated, as we listened last night to the politicians and generals ducking and diving from the questions about whether Gaddafi (or Gaffa`, as I expect the Sun to dub him anytime soon, if they haven't already) is a legitimate target. It reminded me of the questions I would occasionally be asked to field on behalf of my old force, whenever there had been the fatal shooting of someone in an armed police operation. Thankfully, my old force hadn't experienced one of these, albeit they had shot someone during my tenure (he survived) but of course every day that passes when there isn't a fatal shooting by a police force is a day nearer the one they will eventually get. The questions from the press were as searching (quite rightly) as they were blunt (a few were just plain crass) and my ACPO group seemed very keen and eager to pass them on to me to answer as, `you're the chap who is in charge of such matters, you understand, don't you, Mr Hogday`? But I'm not going to trip out my answers here.

What I have noticed over the years, is the interesting take on leadership and control that `the Colonel` has incrementally developed into his own doctrine. He says that he is not in command and control and he is not `the leader`, but that the power is very much in the hands of the people through the various `peoples committees` that he has established. He sees his personality as his greatest strength and has indeed developed the `great leader, great man` mannerisms. He referred to Obama as `my son` in a recent diatribe. How stately and worldly wise of him to broadcast that fatherly self-image. His long speeches on state TV will occasionally show his eyes glazing over and staring into the great beyond to give his people the idea of his honorable intentions.

This has similarities elsewhere, where the `symbolic` leader was, similarly, not swamped with the burden of decision making or of administration. Elswhere, that same symbolic leader was not burdened with the task of appointing other leaders within his developing organisation, but said that the most appropriate person for the job would rise up to that position by his own achievements, winning the respect of the people by demonstrating his value and, ultimately, his strength to beat others into submission to secure his position - how very Darwinian was this `survival of the fittest` doctrine. The symbolic head of state would simply arbitrate and give direction as to the desired state and direction of the nation.

Recently `the colonel` has been heard saying, to those of his people who want change, `there will be no mercy shown`. In that other time and place, the words, "Close your hearts to pity. Act brutally" were the clarion call. And at the end, when it all unravelled, when all was eventually lost, the symbolic leader looked to `his people` and decided that they obviously just weren't worthy of him and were unfit for his leadership. He turned on his own people and wreaked a hideous revenge enshrined in what was known as "The Nero Order" or, as it appeared at the time, "Nero Befehl". He didn't hang around very long after that.

Mirage over Libya - strictly no smoking

2011-03-18T12:59:00.010Z

It is with a sense of foreboding that I face the world today. Three things have happened that are giving me that `uncertain feeling`.

Uncertain feeling Number 1: The UN Resolution that was passed last night, imposing punitive action from the air on the Gadaffi Regime. A bit late, and with the UK up front, is what concerns me the most, although I was bolstered a bit by the drive from the Arab League to impose it - bolstered, but wary as I always am of things Arabic and Gadaffi is more unpredictable than any - and a wily fox. Of course all this has happened within earshot of the echo of Mr Cameron's words that spelt the end of HMS Ark Royal and the Harrier squadrons. Still, we have those jolly nifty new Typhoons, aka Eurofighters, as well as our Tornados - but what about our troops in Afghan? Don't they need a bit of top cover? Perhaps Op. Libya will be treated as R&R for the pilots and groundcrew? And of course we have the French alongside us! Allez! Which reminded me of the last time I saw a French military jet `in action`. It was at the Farnborough Air Show in the mid 90`s. I was there as a guest of a company that had been assisting me in some research I was doing, in my role within the police, at that time.

On the final `official` day, I'd been treated to a 5 course lunch from a top chef in the hospitality suite. This was followed by a flght line seat and non stop refreshments as I watched a stunning display of aircraft piloted by their countries best aviators. The following day I was back there as all the aircraft were going home. At the briefing they were reminded by the Director of Flying, in no uncertain terms, that there was to be no `showboating or other flambouyant acts or gesture`s from the fast jet jockeys who were, after all, display pilots as well as military aviators and prone to the occasional case of oneupmanship. I was at the end of the main runway in a privileged position, with the excuse of talking to my chaps doing perimeter marshalling and traffic management. Being an aircraft enthusiast I was chuffed to be in a prime position to watch the hardware. Along came a Saab Gripen, the latest rugged all-weather, all purpose all Swedish beast, made famous in those Saab car advertisements. As the pilot turned into wind, he closed the canopy and spooled up the motor. A huge cone of intense flame blasted him down the runway. He lifted off and immediately retracted the wheels, remaining dead level for a few seconds before pulling sharply up into a vertical climb, a bit like a mini space shuttle launch. I went as deaf as a post, as did half the population of Farnborough. Exhilerating? Just a bit! No showboating from Sven, then.

The second notable departure came from a Russian Mig 29 that, the previous day, I had seen defying what I had hitherto believed were the rules of avionics, by doing slow and high speed manoevers that made me question what I had just seen, blaming the illusion on too much Chablis with my lunch. But it was all true. I had seen these laws re-written before my very eyes. The Mig pilot assumed the position, wound up his two engines, rolled down the runway, lifted off and then did the unexpected. He just seemed to remain stationary in mid air. He wasn't of course, but he was going so slowly and at such an acute angle that it looked like he was suspended from an invisible wire. Just as he reached the control tower, where the `No Stunts Please` briefing officer was no doubt watching this sober take off, he wound it up into a climb, slowly at first, before flipping it sidways and doing a half circuit and disappearing back to the Urals. Ears were now starting to bleed a little. Igor was eager to please.

Finally, to the point of the first point of this convoluted post. Whining its way along the taxi path came the latest in French joi de vivre. It was a development version of the well established Mirage 2000, the `D` variant that they had been doing a hard sell with. Along with all the other pilots, this `garcon` had clearly taken exception to the lecture by the Flight Director because as he taxied past the control tower, a glowing Gauloise cigarette butt was flicked out of the cockpit and arched across the tarmac, landing on the grass, still smouldering. He turned onto the main runway and as the jet engine's re-heat kicked in, a 20 foot long blue/orange cone of flame came stabbing out of the single, gaping jetpipe. He'd barely closed the cockpit as the plane started to accelerate. Just like the Saab, he lifted off and immediately retracted the undercarriage and levelled off at what seemed no more than 50 feet up. Then, in his own interpretation of the Director's briefing, he did a 180 degree roll and climbed out of Farnborough upside down, flipping it upright at about 500 feet. Beau Gesture.

So to our French chums, getting back in North Africa (where they seem to like to be, for some strange reason) I say, "Bon Chance".
I'll also bet a Looney that Canada will be there too. They're suppose to speak French (although none of my Canadian family do) so that might help. Any of their pilots Quebecois? That should make air traffic control out there a bit spicy! Bless them, anyway.

I almost forgot, I said there were 3 things that gave me that `uncertain feeling`,

Uncertain feeling Number 2: This morning Mrs Hogday asked me to bring her the bottle of Guinness that I had foolishly failed to drink last night (it was St Paddy's Day and I always have a few bottles of the dark stuff handy). She forced me to open it and pour it into the beef stew she was preparing. She was holding a large stainless steel spoon so I had no choice.

Uncertain feeling Number 3: What started all this uncertain feeling stuff was when I awoke from a terrible dream. I was riding my motorbike (couldn't tell which one) at high speed, towards The Mersey Tunnel. Suddenly the tunnel started to close up, like the shutting down of the aperture on a camera lens. The hole got smaller and smaller until it was clear I was going to crash. Then I opened my eyes just as the cat was about to sit on my face.
I really needed that Guinness.

"Go again, Sir?"

2011-03-15T09:13:00.002Z

As the immortal words above, allegedly from a battered sergeant of The Light Brigade just after the charge, spring to mind, I've booked another week at our friends appartment on the Cosa del Nostra a couple of weeks hence.

This time I won't check in online, won't book a parking place at the airport, won't book a rental car, won't take out the airline's recommended insurance, won't take any luggage, won't take any Euro's, won't shower, shit or shave, won't use the lavvy on the plane (I'll bring an empty clear plastic bottle - I think they'll allow that on board but as a back-up I'll be wearing incontinence pants), won't buy an `entertainment accessory` (cheapo naff earphones in a sealed plastic bag that, for £5, allow you to hear a tinny, scratchy drumming in your head as opposed to the engines and screaming kids) won't pre-book the pre-cooked pre-food in-flight meal, won't pre-book our seats (someone else can pay for the privilege of sitting next to this miserable git) and won't listen to the news about the forthcoming Spanish air traffic control and other public sector strikes planned for Easter and beyond into the summer, just in case they realise I'm going earlier in order to miss them and decide to bring their action forward for the sole purpose of catching me in their net of misery. My back up plan is that we'll dust off the hitherto ne'er do well and rarely used credit card and go to Naples, Florida in May. But knowing our current run of `luck` I expect that just after we unpack our hawaiian shirts, we'll be told that "Hurricane Bastard" is making it's way across the Gulf.
Plan C is that we get out the Harley and fucking ride there.

There is no Administration charge to read this post

2011-03-09T16:20:00.006Z

I know I mentioned we'd be in Spain this week...well we're not. Thanks to an extremely nasty virus that reduced Mrs H to a wheezing, overheating, delerious zombie, our plans for a week of warm temperatures, Mediterranean sun, tapas and Rioja with our chums from Nova Scotia went totally tits-up last Thursday, at least for the Hogday's it did.

Mrs H was feeling dodgy last Tuesday and by the next morning, 24 hours before our flight, it was clear she would not be fit to fly. Plan `A` was to re-schedule her flight to Saturday in the hope that 2 extra days rest would see her ok. Jet2.com's customer service person, in a call centre somewhere on the Indian sub-continent, was very polite as she told me that because I had already done an online check-in there was nothing she could do. Had I not used the online check-in the previous day, Mrs H's flight would have been moved, at a `small administration charge`. Being as we're `never say die` types we decided to book her a fresh, one-way, flight for Saturday and for me to travel out alone on the original booking. She would then join me on Saturday and would at least enjoy 5 days break and travel back with me on our original return flight. That was until we woke up Thursday morning and realised that this virus was here to stay for a lot longer. Despite Mrs H's noble pleas for me to go alone and leave her to die a slow, painful and spluttering death, I would have none of it and stayed put, turning into chief nurse, cook and bottle-washer in the blink of an eye. Of course the one-way seat I'd booked her as a back up was just more money down the tubes. Shit.

But never mind, we have travel insurance! Gloomily I telephoned the airline help desk at 50p per minute, to be told after they'd run up a nice bill of £3.50 without me actually getting through to a human, that everything I need is downloadable from their website. So download I did. It was then I discovered that in order for me to receive the necessary form that certifies we did not fly, they would charge a £15 administration fee. Still, we would be able to get our airport tax back! Ah, but to process that, the `admin` fee levied would be £40, which practically cancels out the tax that I would get back. "But you can claim this fee back from your insurers", said the cheerful voice from Mumbai. "No I can't", said I. The insurance company have just told me that they do not refund these fees. "Actually", said I, "my policy came from the insurers you promote and provide, via your website and which I purchased at the time of booking". There came nought but a long, silent pause from the land of the Bengal Lancers. Then she asked if there was anything else she could help me with. There wasn't, so she said goodbye and wished me a great day. What a lovely voice and telephone manner she had. I'd write in to pay her a compliment but I'm scared they'll hit me with another 20 quid admin charge for opening my letter, so her great work must remain unacknowledged.

Mrs H saw the Doctor on Friday and handed him the form we needed him to complete to prove she had seen him and was indeed ill. There is a small admin charge of £26 for this, although it is filled out by an admin clerk at the surgery. I calculated that this would take about 5 minutes to complete, including licking the envelope and fixing a stamp to it, so at £300 an hour that's one hell of an admin clerk. Anyways, I rode into town and went to the currency exchange desk in Marks and Spencers to change £150's worth of those useless Euro's back into Sterling, knowing that they won't charge commission. I got back £135. `The copulating C-bombs`, I thought.

But then came a sort of Road to Damascus moment. As I left the store and walked into the chilly wind howling down the shopping precinct, a woman came up to me and asked if I would like to make a donation towards a childrens charity of some description. I immediately stuck my hand in my pocket, pulled out a handful of coins and pressed £3 into her hand. She thanked me and gave me a ticket which I just stuffed into my pocket. I told her that over the last 48 hours I had watched money being sucked out of my bank account like a turbo-dredger on methanol, but that her's was the most honest and justified request for cash amongst all the other acts of Highway Robbery I'd suffered and I felt relieved to be able to give to her cause. I went home and took our dog for a long walk.

As the pooch and I strolled along a footpath that was formerly a railway track through open countryside, we came across a family of four plus a huge Alsation. The dogs greeted each other like old pals and I chatted to the humans. They had a daughter in a rather heavy, special wheelchair. She was clearly severely disabled, with her head canted to one side. She had Cerebral Palsy. She couldn't speak, but she could see our little Jack Rascal Terrorist. Her father picked him up and sat him on her lap and she beamed at him has he licked her face. After a chat about this and that we all went our separate ways. As they wheeled her away in the opposite direction her mother said that our pooch had really made her day. As I strolled back home I remembered the charity ticket I'd been given and pulled it from my jacket pocket. It was for children suffering from Cerebral Palsy and Dyspraxia. I figured that £3 had bought me quite a lot of sunshine - and there was no small admin charge either.

and thanks to Conan the Librarian for this clip:

Love Shines

2011-03-06T14:16:00.006Z

Couldn't have put it better myself.....(who am I kidding? - rhetorical question)

A Bridge Too Far?

2011-03-01T10:39:00.004Z

What with half the Royal Navy dashing across the Med from Malta to Benghazi recently and the Hogday's off to The Med later this week, I thought I'd brush up on my warship recognition and boy did I get a surprise. Take a look at our latest destroyer, HMS Daring:

Now is it just me and my paranoia, or has the RN come up with the biggest PR coup in decades and stuck a Minaret on the bridge? I think it was commissioned during Tony Blair's watch, so you never know? You be the judge....

All together now...."THANK YOU"

2011-02-28T09:16:00.002Z

Thank you thank you thank you RAF, Royal Navy, Army and the FCO (and no doubt some top cover from the US or other friendlies who still have aircraft carriers or can operate fast jets at long distances from friendly bases).

Now, can anyone else who needs rescuing from shithole hotspots please make your requests known, now, as there are just 31 days left until the new financial year kicks in.

A long time ago, in an Oval Office far, far away.....

2011-02-26T12:37:00.007Z

For those of our younger viewers.........
(there are some compilations on You Tube of this incident, but I prefer this, with just the r/t. fyi "Fox" and "Fox 1" denotes an air to air missile launch. `Splash` denotes a hit. My ex Harrier pilot chum tells me the growling buzzing sound at the end, is that of a Sidewinder missiles IR seeker telling the crew it's locking on to its target).

3 years earlier.....

There IS good in the world

2011-02-23T18:48:00.002Z

The last few posts have been a little dour, laden with doom and gloom about inhumanity, violence and my general dispair about the criminal justice system in the UK. So, in order to prove that I really do look for good things, I thought I'd highlight a remarkable young person from the other country that recognises me as a citizen, Canada. This guy, at 10 years old, has done more humanitarian work than most meandering scroti wastrels will ever achieve in several lifetimes. He also happens to be the nephew of good friends of ours from Nova Scotia and we'll be toasting his achievements when we meet up in Espana next week - yippee!

In other news, closer to home, this didn't exactly cheer me as I'm rarely impressed by `justice`, but `see my face, am I bovvered?`

........Beyond All Recognition

2011-02-21T08:04:00.001Z

......with an acknowlegment to my pals over at The Thin Blue Line and following on from my previous posting, my optimism and faith in people is still loitering in the "seek and ye shall find" mindset, where it has been for as long as I can remember. However, my optimism and faith in the British criminal justice system remains as it has been since around the beginning of my 2nd decade in law enforcement, FUBAR.

Health and Safety in the workplace

2011-02-16T11:27:00.000Z

I was horrified to read of this journalist's plight at the hands of some of the locals in Cairo last week, horrified and disgusted - but not surprised. I send my most positive of thoughts to her and damn her assailants to hell - but, I reiterate, I am not surprised.

Memento Mori, Chief Superintendent, Memento Mori

2011-02-12T15:00:00.007Z

Another well observed post from Officer Bloggs. For me this translates into the often denied fact by senior police officers that, as good as they think they are at understanding life on the streets, the more senior they are in rank, the greater their credibility gap. It is obvious when you think about it.

I recall a conversation with a former chief constable of mine who was considered to be what is often described as a `coppers copper`. My take on this expression in his case was that he was very good at playing the fatherly figure and gave out the aura of a man with the `common touch`, who took time for a chat with the junior ranks when he encountered any. As a result he had a certain popularity. His operational track record was also pretty good despite scooting up through the ranks, albeit not as quickly as many that I watched disappearing into the smoke and mirrors world of accelerated promotion. The weak link in this will always be the fact that these people just do not perform the day to day job any more and their personal experiences of it are at best a decade or more out of date.

On this occasion, I was out and about in our ballistically protected Land Rover - an armoured car by any other name, the sort of vehicle normally associated with the RUC/PSNI during the more public troubled years.(I said `more public` because we don't hear a lot of what is happening still). Quite a few forces had one of these vehicles and the bigger forces had several. They were used in firearms operations when the tactical options required it. Ours was a V8 powered beast. Ballistic steel hull and doors with similarly heavy duty ballistic glass. Inside this and you were pretty safe from all but high velocity ball/AP ammunition. It was a bit of a pig to drive and required special training and regular use to keep you up to spec on its very different and unforgiving handling characteristics, especially when trying to stop it, as any ex squaddie or RUC officer will tell you. At over 4,000Kgs before anyone else and their kit gets in, the brakes will only allow you about 4 heavy stops in any one journey before going on strike and leaving Sir Isaac Newton in charge of slowing you down.

Unbeknown to me and my driving school instructor, my check run through the town was spotted by the chief who was out in his staff car. A couple of days later he strolled into my department, en route to a meeting, and was obviously going to tackle me about something. "Ah, Mr Hogday, can you tell me what you were doing in that bloody horrible armoured Land Rover monstrosity the other day"? I explained that it was a re-authorisation check run and also the mileage on it was so low that I was advised by workshops to put more miles on it to keep the systems active as it was better for the overall maintenance of the vehicle. He replied, with that steely edge to his voice that was rarely heard outside of ACPO group meetings or disciplinary hearings and hence the rest of the Force who only got the kindly father treatment. "Keep it off the bloody roads, it's a PR disaster". I didn't go into details about advice contained in the ACPO manual of guidance on the police use of firearms or any of the other perfectly good reasons why his predecessor had purchased it and why we had to train with it. Nor did I mention that the reason his Tactical Firearms Unit were so good at their job was precisely because of the hard, regular and realistic training we performed. I didn't mention that because I could read his mood and his attitude and it just wasn't worth it. I thought about it for a while, discussed it with the team and we decided to ditch the white paint and dayglo police stripes of our bullet stopping Landy and had it painted a dark, non descript colour with no police markings or signs on it. I never told the chief.

A similar tale to make my point about being `out of touch` relates to a major security event involving many visiting foreign heads of state. Our plan, discussed with the advance liaison security teams of the foreign visitors, included the deployment of our snipers (since re-named `riflemen`, presumably to make them sound less ruthless). Anyway, I stated my intention to include this in the plan which I was presenting to the assistant chief (Operations) but not before being told by a very senior Special Branch officer, "Oh the snipers won't be allowed to take their rifles, he's never authorised that, so good luck". I was a little surprised to hear this as my predecessor had many previous jobs where the tactics would have benefited from a sniper team, but then I recalled that in all my years as a PC and sergeant on the Tac team I'd never actually seen our snipers deployed, other than on the ranges. Still, off I went to see the assistant chief, a man who I had great respect for and who I rated.

Sure enough, as soon as the sniper team was mentioned he said that he assumed they would just be used as `spotters` and would not have their rifles. I strongly disagreed, to which he said that there was no way he would authorise a sniper because `shooting at someone in a crowd, even a would be assassin, was totally unacceptable because of the great power of the rifles`. I told him I totally agreed with him and that his judgment on this issue was sound, but insisted that my snipers have their rifles and went on to explain exactly why. This included the fact that close protection was not part of the snipers duty because of the reasons he'd already cited, but that they would be invaluable to counter a criminal/terrorist sniper who would have no such regard for hitting other people beyond his intended target. If such a threat was spotted, it would only be another sniper who could have any chance of stopping the shot and that to this end my officers would, as likely as not, be looking away from the VIP's to where such a threat might come from - and they were good at finding those positions, because they were snipers QED. Taking on a gun or knife in the crowd was the job of the close protection officer, not a police sniper. After a few moments he said, "Approved, Mr Hogday. You know, it's never been explained to me in that way before". Frankly, I was amazed to hear this and wondered just how many other jobs had been denied this option but for a proper explanation to the man at the top who had to sign it off.

I just do not believe that sufficient of the current police high command have a sufficient grasp of the reality of the difficulties faced by the systemic bog that they and their predecessors have created over the decades. Those that say they do understand have a duty to do something about it and prove that they are not thinking a decade or more behind the real thing. Perhaps we should take a leaf out of the wisdom of the Roman Emporers and ensure that a junior officer be on hand to whisper in the emporer's ear, "Memento Mori" - `Remember your mortality (Sir or Ma`am)`

The Heroine of Northamptonshire

2011-02-09T13:59:00.002Z

I'm sure this sort of thing happens in Los Angeles (or maybe even Liverpool?) all the time - ie ladies of much mature years intervening in raids on jewellers shops. Looks like they didn't know what hit them - it certainly wasn't Santa, thats for sure. I'm sure exemplary sentences will be metered out to the robbers. I do hope the press give the trial as much coverage as this remarkable footage. Her statement, which can be found in a separate clip accessed just below the video clip, is also worth a read, especially between some of the lines. As for the lady of the moment, Res Ipsa Loquitur and Ave, Caesar, morituri te salutant

Lets take the piss out of the disabled guy

2011-02-09T12:22:00.000Z

I'm still steaming about the `honourable` members of parliament who thought it would be funny to take the piss out of their colleague with cerebral palsy,. It's not helped by the fact that Prime Ministers Question Time is on in the background as I type this. Even after trying to vent my feelings in the below `Speechless in Parliament` post I was still riled, until I found the below. I'm OK now.

Farewell to a guitar genius

2011-02-08T16:54:00.001Z

Off with their AntiSocialBehaviourOrders

2011-02-08T10:45:00.003Z

Welcome to the Eu. 5000 road fatalities a month.Very antisocial.

Speechless in Parliament

2011-02-05T12:00:00.007Z

I've just read the full story in todays "Times" of this Member of Parliament's experience at the hands of his fellow `honourable` members that reminded me of how I've hated bullies for as long as I can remember and made me wonder why no one had the guts to stand up in the chamber and put the finger on these odious morons? I also heard the Prime Minister speaking on TV about the failure of multi-culturalism (is his specialist subject the bloody obvious?). I then read this story (Minority Rules) over at PC Bloggs' place. Oh the shame of it all.

Its a Gloucestershire thang - if you have to ask, you just wouldn't get it

2011-02-04T09:51:00.003Z

But these misunderstandings are so common:

Last week, a 60+ year old woman checked into the Four Seasons in Palm Beach and was a bit lonely. She thought, "I'll call one of those men you see advertised in phone books for escorts and sensual massages."

She looked through the phone book, found a full page ad for a guy calling himself Damon - a very handsome man with assorted physical skills flexing in the photo. He had all the right muscles in all the right places, thick wavy hair, long powerful legs, dazzling smile, six pack abs and she felt quite certain she could bounce a quarter off his well oiled butt.... You get the picture.

She figured, what the heck, she'll give him a call.

"Hello, ma'am, how may I help you?" . . . Oh my, she thought he sounded sooo sexy!

Afraid she would lose her nerve if she hesitated, she said, "Hi, I hear you give a great massage, I'd like you to come to my room number 420 at the Four Seasons Hotel and give me one. No, wait, I should be straight with you. I'm in town all alone and what I really want is sex. I want it hard, I want it hot, and I want it now. Bring implements, toys, rubber, leather, whips, everything you've got in your bag of tricks. We'll go hot and heavy all night - tie me up, cover me in chocolate syrup and whipped cream, anything and everything baby. Now how does that sound?"

He says, "Oh my... That sounds absolutely fantastic, but you need to press 9 for an outside line..."

The truth is out there, at last......so thats all right then.

2011-02-01T18:41:00.003Z

This new gizmo has only been public for half a day and already the denials are flooding in behind the initial wave of enquiries. "Not realistic", "Not a true reflection of the reality", "It also includes retail crime so doesn't necessarily portray the real picture", "This street isn't really a no-go area"...... are no doubt some of the responses we shall read about in the coming days as this `research tool` gets a good going over by the media and others.

From my perspective, all I can say is that I spotted one of the top whatever-the-number-was notorious `streets of fear` that I used to patrol in my days on the streets. My first taste of what life would be like for me, after I'd transferred from the Metropolitan Police, is easy to recall now. As the guy showing me the ground drove slowly down the `naughty road` in the van, he said, "This pub on the left can get a bit lively" and as if on cue as the words left his lips a chair came through the plate glass window and almost landed in my lap. Out we jumped and emerged a few minutes later with two struggling, kicking, scratching, biting, spitting whores. Nice. That's the way it was then and thats the way it was when I took the pension and ran, 25 years later. Twas ever thus.

So after reading all the smoothing, soothing sound bites from the senior officers and local councils crime and disorder spokespersons (who also appear to be wearing the Emporers New Clothes) I forgave myself for my cynicism and disparaging thoughts and the odd, sad out-loud comment. One of the quotes was from a guy I used to teach when he was a probationer and I know for a fact he copped a few beatings down that street when he was drawing a coppers pay. He knows its always been like that, but he sure as hell wasn't saying it now he was in the upper ranks of the tin gods.
I read his platitudinous quote and quietly chuckled to myself. I wished him a healthy retirement, somewhere that he doesn't have to bullshit anymore. By my reckoning he must be due in about 2 years, unless he's been done over by the tinkering with the retirement age and has a few more years of truth manipulation ahead of him.

Tips for snipers

2011-01-24T08:10:00.000Z

1. Never put yourself in a position you cannot withdraw from
2. A cool head and a quiet response can often get you out of trouble, whilst a loud one can get you in deeper
3. Being concealed up a tree only works until you fire your first shot

"Ex Pat B&B Closes in wake of Court Ruling......"

2011-01-19T08:57:00.002Z

"Bloody Pomms"

Who gets the ASBO?

2011-01-18T18:18:00.001Z

Many social observers seem to want us to embrace the 'cafe society laid back style' of our continental neighbours. I'm all for it.

Are YOU insured for sex?

2011-01-17T16:57:00.000Z

SEX with your wife - legal & general
SEX with your future wife - Mutual Trust
SEX with your secretary - Employers Liability
SEX with a prostitute - Commercial Union
SEX on the telephone - Direct line
SEX with your biographer - Quote me happy
SEX in a hurry- Insure & go
SEX with your boyfriend -standard life
SEX with a transvestite - confused . com
SEX with some one different - go compare . com
SEX with an animal - compare the meerkat . com
SEX with a fat bird - More Than
SEX on the back seat - sheila's wheels
SEX with an o.a.p - saga
SEX with a posh bird - privilege .com
SEX with a sheep - Farmers Union

Allan! Allan! Allan!

2011-01-14T10:38:00.000Z

Most of my police-type mates (the `good guys` anyway) will enjoy this, as will the military-types and other eccentrics who drop by. Somehow it sums up what my take on life has been all about these past decades.....

Click here and have your sound on

"I'm sorry, what was the answer? I didn't quite understand your question........"

2011-01-10T07:57:00.005Z

WHY?

Why?

Why what?

Speak softly and carry a big stick (and even if the stick isn't that big, wave it like it is)

2011-01-07T14:11:00.009Z

I've been stewing a bit, since I heard of the instant withdrawal from service of our force of Harrier aircraft. I was equally miffed when I waved goodbye to the last two HMS Ark Royal's, the big one, pictured above (or maybe its HMS Eagle - yes we had more than one) as well as the `mini-me` version recently. I am currently reading a fascinating book about the last major Op by the last fast jet squadron to operate from the former Ark Royal. It is a tale from the last days of `Empire` and a fine testament to our Naval aviators. This review does a much better job than I could.

I guess we just don't do this stuff anymore.

Well, are YOU ready?

2010-12-24T13:52:00.005Z

What is it with this "are you ready for Christmas"? We always feel slightly bemused when people, doubtless well meaningly, ask this strange question. I mean, is there some sort of deadline when someone at the BBC broadcasts the word "GO"? Is there a point, beyond which, if one is not `ready` that some horrible ill befalls one? Is this why there are people flapping their stressed-out way around supermarkets up and down the land, breathlessly muttering to themselves, "I'm not ready, I'm not ready, when will I be ready, am I ready yet? - OH MY GOD, I'M NOT F@@KING READYYYYYY!"

Well I'm always ready. Always ready for a pint with friends, a cuddle from any member of the family, especially Mrs Hogday, always ready to chat with friends or strangers, providing they are nice and not pains in the arse. So I just don't get it when I'm asked if I'm ready for bloody Christmas.

Anyway, I hope all my blog pals and acquanitances, who I've enjoyed swapping yarns and comments with this past year, are as happy and as healthy as they can be. Are you ready for this? :)

No Greater Love

2010-12-21T20:53:00.000Z

I salute this British Man