If the scandal of child abuse in Rotherham leads to one thing it should be an end to the corrosive forces of political correctness which has infected so many elements of our society, blurring the lines between right and wrong.
The deaf, dumb and blind Police Commissioner hangs on to his £85,000 job – paid for out of the public purse – not out of civic duty but a the stark reality that once his nose is extracted from the trough he is quite likely to end up flipping burgers.
He will go – like many others in time – but not before they have extracted their exit fees at more cost to already cash-strapped councils. Next time your local care home faces closure think about funding incompetents like the bunch at Rotherham. It’s happening all over the UK.
Pitifully and with no regard to the feelings of the hundreds of victims, there is also now talk of “reaching out” to minority communities to better understand them. What utter rubbish!
If you do not understand that abusing children is fundamentally depraved then you have no right to enjoy the benefits of a free and civil society, whether you are a celebrity in a position of power or an Asian taxi driver.
Black or white there is a clear divide between right and wrong. Don’t allow the liberal idiots that have chosen to ignore this savagery to now seek to offer platitudes in the name of cohesion.
Any community – indigenous or minority – that cannot understand the immorality of what has gone on here has no place in a modern, civilised nation.
The Thrill Seekers of Yesteryear
The current trend to get doused by a bucket of cold water may have laudable charitable aims but inducing a heart attack at my age is not on any bucket list of mine, if you’ll excuse the pun.
It did make me think what we did to get the pulses racing when we were kids – before girls – and instantly brought back memories of garden hopping.
This largely winter challenge was an early assessment as to whether any of us had a future career in the SAS or, at worst, as burglars. The idea was that you attempted to get from A to B via the back gardens of a row of houses avoiding detection, capture and a severe clip around the ear.
My parents house backed on to a line of around 30 bungalows leading to the final “escape hatch” of Idle Moor. It was like the overground version of The Shawshank Redemption, our own long march to freedom…at least until school the following morning.
We always convened as darkness fell in our back garden, ready to take on the night’s challenge as my mum and dad watched television in the front room, oblivious to the antics being planned with military precision out back.
It was best to do this in small groups so you could scatter when things went wrong without bumping into anyone; sometimes though, we had a field bigger than the Grand National with the ensuing chaos guaranteed.
Tactics were important and we went through our escape routines like a BA cabin crew although you could condense the emergency policy very succinctly to “run like the clappers!”
Eventually, with hearts pumping, we muddied our hands in the dirt and blackened our faces ready to begin the assault course. Beeny hats pulled down we set off over the first fence and like a choir ushered the call back down the line.
“Shsssshhhh! Stay tight, don’t panic and keep quiet!”. All would be forgotten in an instant at the first calamity.
The bigger the group the more chances of an early mishap with a creaking fence or a scattered plant pot causing chaos. In smaller groups we were more confident, almost cocky, which guaranteed even more chaos.
Neighbourhood cats viewed us with almost distant amusement from fence tops as they sought out the midnight supper of mice. We passed on by and left them to it.
One night things were going far too well when Our Kid, attempting a Fosbury Flop of sorts over one fence, cleared it with inches to spare only to land flush in the middle of a cold frame and a neighbour’s prized begonias.
The explosion of glass shattered the night time peace as our emergency evacuation procedures kicked into place and we scattered to all parts of the neighbourhood with bedroom lights bursting into life like the Blackpool illuminations. You could barely run for laughing in truth.
Our “lifeboat” was the moor but it was always best if home was closer to find safety here as long as we could avoid our mum en route to bed.
Having washed the mud from our faces in my dad’s water butt, we slid up the stairs to bed fearful of a knock at the door if they had got our finger prints as we had vivid imaginations in those days.
CSI would have nobbled us in no time but with local Plod we had a chance.
One night we had almost made it again to the moor without incident when a light flicked on and a young woman came into her bedroom and started undressing.
Like a group of meerkats we stopped on the spot, turned and craned our heads over the fence, almost stopping breathing for fear of the hot plumes of teenage breath rolling over the fence like low clouds giving the game away.
Inevitably the night’s silence was broken by a giggle exploding so loud the poor woman nearly had a heart attack. We’d been rumbled and the only thing left to do was panic as usual.
Fences were assaulted as we all sought our separate escape routes into the night sky, beautifully tended flowers were crushed as the debris mounted like Beecher’s Brook and it was every man for himself as ever.
Panting from a combination of fear and excitement we all arrived on the moor with our over active minds convinced there would be mounted police and dogs chasing us down like renegades to be named and shamed on Look North the following night and hung outside the Town Hall at dawn.
The wild, wild innocence of youth.
Bank Holiday Blues in the Bear
The forecast was bleak and, worse still, deadly accurate. Monsoon Monday had arrived to scupper anything productive for the last bank holiday of the summer.
Stronger men may have resisted but eventually I gave in and walked the deserted streets to seek comfort in the Bear. Like a scene from a spaghetti western, the winds howled and tumbleweed would have been bowling down the streets but for it being weighed down by the rains.
A light shone brightly in the distance as the open saloon doors bode a warm welcome. I walked through to an almost empty bar save for Nob ‘Ed Corner, full as usual with those with nowhere better to go…just like me.
Tonight was the second debate on the future of Scotland but in Nob ‘Ed Corner, the conversation was far more wide ranging. The hot topic appeared to be sick pay and how to extract the maximum possible for the longest period. Benefits Street had come to the Bear.
Trade and commerce was also heartily discussed and it became apparent that there is nothing any many could not obtain – origination not to be questioned – from Nob ‘Ed Corner, a local equivalent to eBay.
From asparagus to dish washer fluid, all wishes were possible; the spirit of Arthur Daley was alive and well and lives on in the Bear.
The arguments raged, subsiding only for glasses to be refilled as the rain pelted down some more. Eventually, the conversation moved to the various fishing trips planned for the week ahead and one sensed that the nation’s economic growth was being driven elsewhere than the Bear.
I wandered off into the darkness smiling at the beauty of the local.
You Can’t Educate Pork
This week’s Stating the Blindingly Obvious Commission (more nice work from the Public Pot…if you can get it) confirms that most of the top jobs go to those whose daddies can afford to send them to posh schools.
This may appear to be dispiriting at first glance but then you could always end up like this…
…or worse still…this
In the interests of political correctness, fairness and, of course, human rights I should also have mentioned the other one but he’s a total wanker and I’m not PC!
Have a good weekend!
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