I am often accused of not welcoming foreigners to our shores, mainly because they do not integrate; they stick together in their ever-expanding ghettos; and really know how to get right up one’s nose in so many, many ways: but apart from the slightly unusual references to a dual carriageway; these Muslims are really just like us!
It is a strange but telling tale, and although many of my readers may subscribe deeper motives for my highlighting it, it is pefectly relevant to Britain today.
You live in Rotherham, you want to call a reliable taxi company to order a taxi to take you, well, anywhere; and if you are especially nervous, or wish to avoid any possibility of associating with characters of, shall we say a less than preposessing character; you always demand a ‘local’ driver.
When asked for comment, a council official stated, probably through clenched teeth from sheer frustration, ” However, this appears to be a decision made by the company and there is currently nothing in the conditions of their license which state that they cannot operate such a policy, just as some firms choose to offer customers only female drivers.”
The reason for my posting is, quite simply this: this is where we are today; mainly because of the Social Engineering policies of the bloody Labour Government through the Blair years; and why a national newspaper runs a story where people ask to be provided with White drivers because they are deemed more trustworthy than their Pakistani Muslim colleagues.
I do so wonder why!
Time after time, the outlandish decisions of some of our so-called Magistrates, along with Crown Prosecutors, a title which used to hold a great deal of respect from the public, get ever stranger.
Imagine you are a ordinary mother walking with your four-year-old son from his nursery school back home. You obey the rules, wait for the traffic to ease, then step forward onto the zebra crossing. In reality, you are fully protected by the Law, which states that all traffic MUST stop if they see a pedestrian commence walking on to the zebra stripes of the crossing.
Rachel Batts was driving on that road, and, despite hitting the small boy, travelled a further 120 feet down the road, hauling that small and helpless body along with her before she eventually stopped. The child was air-lifted to hospital where he underwent three operations and skin grafts.
The woman driver was fined £250, and given SIX penalty points, but was not banned from driving because ‘Mike Allem, chairman of the bench, said a ban would normally have been considered, but Rachel’s village location – and that she needed the car to get to work and take her son to school - was taken into account. “We would normally consider disqualification but we have taken into account where you live,” said Mr Allem. “This was a very unpleasant result of a momentary lapse of concentration. We accept it was a low speed, but aggravated by the injuries to the child and it was on a zebra crossing.”
If truth be told, the Magistrates who delivered this outlandish verdict are culpable, and guilty of extreme stupidity, but the real criminals are both the Police and the Crown Prosecutors, who both failed to get the correct charge onto this particularly silly and dangerous woman, who cannot even see a mother and child walking across a pedestrian crossing in broad daylight, could not drive correctly, and should have been charged with dangerous driving as a minimum; and slung in jail.
The Care Quality Commission has just produced its first series of reports on ‘Care Homes’ both council- and privately-owned, after the upheaval of senior management. These are the places where we send our ‘loved ones’ when they become ill; or disabled, mentally or physically, or perhaps, to use a more truthful terminology, to place them ‘out of sight and mind’.
Sometimes, it is true, our old relatives have succumbed to mental illlnesses: alzheimers’, dementia, or that modern curse. so far untreatable and only partially-diagnosed; schizophrenia. A dearly-loved mother, an elderly aunt of mine, stayed in a care home for the last few months of her life because she was becoming violent and unmanageable in a domestic environment; and I watched as the mental deterioration took its toll upon the capacities of a once-razor-sharp intellect; to the extent that she did not even recognise me when visiting.
As a nation, we have become steadily divorced from the old principles of decency, of family ties, of patriarchal or matriarchal duty; and have replaced those invisible ties with financial ones: can we afford this centre, or can we move the old dear into this ‘care home’ with the least inconvenience to the wider family?
To quote from a recent CQC report on an outfit which called itself the ‘Whitstable Nursing Home’, although a less-likely ‘home’ environment was found in the words:-
A trolley with people’s drinks on was chipped and had dirty marks over it. Some stands for catheter bags were chipped exposing bare metal that had rusted making it very difficult to keep clean. The radiator in the front hallway had brown splash marks over it. The carpets were dirty throughout the home. Staff said it was up to the night staff to vacuum the night before but it ‘depends who is on’. The carpets appeared not to have not been vacuumed.
People were given cream coloured plastic cups to drink from and some were not clean. One person showed us their brown stained cup and said “It’s rubbish, look at that. You would think they would try to clean them or throw them away. It’s a bit grotty isn’t it?”
The bins in some of the toilets were full. The bin in the staff toilet was full and had no lid to prevent cross infection. The bins outside were not secured and could be accessed by anyone. The sharps bin was not locked and was a quarter full with incontinence pads. The clinical bin was half full with incontinence pads and was not locked. The lid did not fit properly and it smelled strongly of urine. Of three waste bins two had closed lids and one was so full it was overflowing and the lid could not be shut.
I would simply ask ATW readers to study any of the similar reports identified in the Daily Telegraph page on the CQC statements, one of the first done from a realistic and honest point of view; or download the spreadsheet from the CQC website, and then ask yourselves if this state of affairs has come about in the past three months, or has it been allowed to continue through superficial and peremptory ‘Inspections’ by a series of groups who couldn’t organise a piss-up in a brewery, never mind inspect a whole industry?
And just before anyone out there accuses me of writing of that which I know nothing about, I would simply point to this in my own defence.
Jeremy Forrest (30) was a teacher who fell in love with a 15-year old pupil of his and ran away with her to France last year. It seems consensual on both sides. Despite this he was convicted of child abduction, as well as five counts of having sex with a child.
He pleaded guilty, offered no defence and he’s now been sentenced to five and a half years in prison. Needless to say, he won’t ever be back in a classroom.
Apparently he was a good and conscientious teacher. News reports don’t indicate any previous. The girl testified that he went the France with her only because he feared she would otherwise harm herself.
I want to ask you a question, dear reader. Imagine that Forrest is a mate of yours. Imagine he’s an old mate, always a good fella, someone you could rely on, one of the good guys who always stood his round. Then your mate was plastered all over the press, and now he’s been convicted. Would you end your friendship?
It’s easy to demand the hangman or say “chop his bollocks off” when you don’t know him. But what if he’s a mate who you’ve known from school and with whom you’ve shared alot? Would you now regard him as dead? Never see or speak with him again? Would you disown him? I can’t say that I would.
In that position I’d probably visit him and take him for a pint when he’s released.
You can always see the people who don’t think about their driving on the motorway. I don’t mean about where they’re going, or where to turn off. I mean about their driving and how it affects others. People who don’t use their mirrors to see what’s behind or beside them, who don’t adjust the pressure on the loud pedal in anticipation of the uphill bit just beginning, and who don’t get up to speed before joining the motorway (this one really winds me up).
Chief among them are the dopey middle lane hoggers. Some of them are plain arrogant, presuming to demonstrate to others how very safe they are by doing 65mph. Listen wallies, it’s not safe at all to trail a mile of frustrated drivers off your rear bumper, all desperate to get past the tosser (that’s you) doing 65mph. Just as bad are those who sit with their chin 6 inches from the steering wheel, completely unaware of the chaos they’re causing all around because they’re not looking, not thinking and oblivious of the empty lane on their left – which you’re supposed to move into when you can! Bah.
Even though middle lane hoggers drive me up the wall, I absolutely disagree with the idea of fining them. It’s a daft idea which will be arbitrarily imposed. The idea of owing the state money for driving badly is insane. Self-policing is the way to do it. It’s perfectly acceptable to flash them, toot them and give them the archer’s salute as you go by. These are the soft social pressures which truly hold society together and keep the dopey in order.
And if that doesn’t work, we should ram them off the road.
A couple of days ago I flew down to Gatwick to spend a day with my grandson Marco, along with his Mom and his Dad, my eldest son. Our few hours together was the stuff of legend; the same legend which has come to be expected from a family grown wider, of harmless laughter, of silly jokes and of watching a small boy’s wide eyes when introduced to that greatest of England’s inventions, the railway steam engine. I could, and indeed have maybe mentioned, my great happiness with the smaller members of my family; of the sheer wonder of being introduced to a ten-weeks premature scrap of humanity some five years ago, and of having my own worries brought down to earth by the response of a paediatric nurse who casually named my first grandson as ‘the noisy one in the corner’. Of the equally special happiness shared with my second son, who has presented me, care of course of Mom, with two more grandsons; both of whom have been introduced to the wonders of steam, along with the proud heritage of engineer-driven advances with which we fuelled the true Industrial Revolution which still changes our world even today.
Because it is the visit which we made to the privately-run, funded and operated Bluebelle Railway is that of which I write today. I cannot claim that it is a peculiarly-British trait to rescue and rebuild rusting steam locomotives, to spend literally millions on progressing the refurbishment of a branch-line closed long ago, and then to get thousands of people to pay for the privilege of sitting in a rail carriage which is drawn by one of the steam, smoke and noise-belching behemoths from our past, but we have over two hundred Rail Preservation societies all across this country of ours. The engineering and construction feats which faced this outfit would have daunted professionals, but they calmly made plans, raised money, sold shares in their Company, and moved over 80,000 tons of rubbish to get the trains running where they once rolled some sixty years ago.
The peculiar thrill of standing close up to a working steam engine, with its steam, water and smoke smells and noise, is one which lived with me from my first memories of travel after the War ended. To be favoured with a smile or a wave from these minor gods who bestrode the cabs of the locomotives was to know that you had been recognised as a true aficionado, and it is no lie when drivers and firemen said that once fired up, the railway engine was as ‘a living thing’. We as a nation still innovate, still experiment and invent, but the advances usually flow towards America, partly because we don’t seem to acknowledge that seed money without financial control is not welcomed by young entrepreneurs. But when it comes to men and women who dream of a time when ‘the railway’ meant a service which was prompt, reliable, efficient; employing machinery which maybe wasn’t ‘super-efficient’, wasn’t ‘ecologically friendly’ (whatever that is supposed to mean) but struck a spark of recognition within the engineer hidden within our hearts, we have them is spades!
From the photograph, and the accompanying story, as reported in the Mail, you are all cordially invited to guess what the clue was which enabled the Fraud Squad from the Dept. of Work & Pensions to detemine that the person had claimed benefits fraudulently.
Was it because the Vulcan’s ears were just a bit too big, or was it because the one in the corner was the incorrect shade of blue? Who can say?
In the world of zoos, animal conservation, tourism and plain curiosity, nothing beats a tiger to draw the crowds. When a tiny child walks up close to a huge tiger, separated only by a tough safety glass shield, this is the image which remains:-
But when a female attendant seemingly ignores all the rules, and walks into a tiger enclosure, there should simply be no plan to destroy the tiger, because that animal is simply obeying its nature, which is that of a wild, untamed, carnivorous, dangerous tiger. If any condemnations are made or aimed, they should be made at the attendant, or the zoo management, not the bloody tiger.
Labour held the South Shields parliamentary constituency in yesterday’s by-election. That’s no surprise. It’s a place where a flesh-eating disease would win if it came with a red rosette. They could hold the seat even though their vote collapsed by 42% from last time. The interesting point is that nutter/racist/fruitcake UKIP man came second with 24% of the vote, ahead of the sensible Tory.
Even better was the LibDem coming 7th, polling just 1% (that’s one per cent), being behind an Independent, and Independent Socialist and the BNP candidate. With 156 fewer votes the LibDem would have come behind the Monster Raving Loony Party – superb.
A bad night for the establishment parties, and that’s always good.