I had a bit of fun this afternoon. My step-daughter and her family were returning to Ireland after the funeral, and stopped with us for a while on the way. About an hour after they had left for the ferry, I got a phone call from her husband. Could we see her coat anywhere in the house, as they had boarded the boat and she couldn't find it, and her purse and mobile phone were in it? Of course, there it was, next to the front door.
I asked him what time the boat sailed. It was in 40 minutes. Thinking of the hassle (and not inconsiderable cost) of posting an adult's winter coat to Ireland, I said to him:
Give me 20 minutes.
The A40 has a lot of heavy traffic, so the car was out of the question. The XT was too slow, and it was a cold day anyway, and not ideal for an unfaired bike when wearing jeans and trainers. So I pulled the Honda round to the front of the house and went on that.
Sixteen miles. Eighteen minutes. And that was on a road full of lorries, tractors, caravans, motorhomes and slow rural buses. I spent more time on the wrong side of the road than the right side. But I got there before they drew up the gangway, and she got her coat, and phone, and purse.
I had fancied a ride out this afternoon anyway, but I couldn't think of a decent excuse to give Anna. Sometimes the biking Gods smile on us.
Wednesday, 3 March 2010
Battering rams?
From the always-entertaining Daily Mail:
Police called to a home in a sleepy village were shocked to find a sex dungeon containing Nazi uniforms, whips, chains, sex toys and cattle prods. Officers were alerted after neighbours reported 'unusual behaviour' and 'strange sounds' coming from the four-bedroom semi in Lee Mill, Devon.
So neighbours see some unusual behaviour and hear some strange noises, and report this to the police. And the police turn up for a quiet word to see what is going on, right? Wrong:
Police arrived with battering rams to raid the home but a plain clothes officer knocked on the door and the residents let him in thinking he had an appointment.
Battering rams? Why the heck did they need battering rams? Armed drug dealers? People-traffickers? Somali pirates? No - they were raiding a knocking shop where people came to indulge their rather strange tastes. Still, no point in passing up a chance to look really macho when there's no serious threat to life and limb, eh boys?
The story itself, and the outraged tone of the Mail's reporting of it, show that we haven't really grown up much in the last hundred years. The tone of the report reminds me of how they used to report homosexual activity 30-40 years ago. And it makes me wonder how consistent we are when considering other people's sexual tastes. Look at the array of implements and the baffled face of the police officer:
It's the same look, and the same layout as when they display an IRA arms cache.
I ought to point out here that I don't understand any of this particular predilection. Pain, for me, either receiving or inflicting it, is the greatest turn-off I can imagine in sexual activity. And all that domination/submission stuff is a bit of a mystery too. The whips and the chains and the paddles and the studded leather underwear just make me want to laugh. But people do like this kind of thing and, if my informants are correct, some people like it a lot and can't get satisfaction any other way.
Fair enough. Not my cup of tea, but really none of my business. Even the Nazi armbands are symbolic, a bit of theatre, rather than a sign of the resurgence of a political movement bent on world domination.
So why does the state think it can barge into something like that with battering rams, and arrest two people? Am I right in thinking that if, say, it had been a gay club, or exclusively for Asian customers, the police would have been slightly more circumspect in their approach?
The neighbours objected to the number of visitors, and perhaps running a brothel in the midst of a quiet, respectable neighbourhood is not the best idea. On these grounds, I think I would agree. But there was more to it than that:
One neighbour said: '... It's disgusting. We just want them out and have a nice family move in.'
Ah, there we have it. It's 'disgusting'. The same word was used about the activities in the Spanner trial back in 1987, when 16 men were imprisoned for up to 4½ years for consensual sadomasochistic activity. I can't for the life of me see what justification the state has for punishing people for things they do in private and with others who consent to the activity, however mild or extreme.
That was, after all, the original argument for the decriminalisation of homosexuality. Fifty years ago, most people found homosexuality disgusting. But, so the argument went, if it's something that consenting adults to in the privacy of their own homes, what business is it of anyone else's what goes on? We seem to have got over our institutional 'disgust' about that particular tendency, but for others it seems that the opinions of our neighbours can still over-rule our rights to do what we want with our own rude bits.
I'm with Mrs Patrick Campbell: as long as they don't do it in the streets and frighten the horses, they can do what they like. And if it's a choice between freedom of action with your own body parts and "It's disgusting. We just want them out and have a nice family move in", then pass me the gimp mask.
Wrinkled Weasel has an interesting take on this here.
Police called to a home in a sleepy village were shocked to find a sex dungeon containing Nazi uniforms, whips, chains, sex toys and cattle prods. Officers were alerted after neighbours reported 'unusual behaviour' and 'strange sounds' coming from the four-bedroom semi in Lee Mill, Devon.
So neighbours see some unusual behaviour and hear some strange noises, and report this to the police. And the police turn up for a quiet word to see what is going on, right? Wrong:
Police arrived with battering rams to raid the home but a plain clothes officer knocked on the door and the residents let him in thinking he had an appointment.
Battering rams? Why the heck did they need battering rams? Armed drug dealers? People-traffickers? Somali pirates? No - they were raiding a knocking shop where people came to indulge their rather strange tastes. Still, no point in passing up a chance to look really macho when there's no serious threat to life and limb, eh boys?
The story itself, and the outraged tone of the Mail's reporting of it, show that we haven't really grown up much in the last hundred years. The tone of the report reminds me of how they used to report homosexual activity 30-40 years ago. And it makes me wonder how consistent we are when considering other people's sexual tastes. Look at the array of implements and the baffled face of the police officer:
It's the same look, and the same layout as when they display an IRA arms cache.
I ought to point out here that I don't understand any of this particular predilection. Pain, for me, either receiving or inflicting it, is the greatest turn-off I can imagine in sexual activity. And all that domination/submission stuff is a bit of a mystery too. The whips and the chains and the paddles and the studded leather underwear just make me want to laugh. But people do like this kind of thing and, if my informants are correct, some people like it a lot and can't get satisfaction any other way.
Fair enough. Not my cup of tea, but really none of my business. Even the Nazi armbands are symbolic, a bit of theatre, rather than a sign of the resurgence of a political movement bent on world domination.
So why does the state think it can barge into something like that with battering rams, and arrest two people? Am I right in thinking that if, say, it had been a gay club, or exclusively for Asian customers, the police would have been slightly more circumspect in their approach?
The neighbours objected to the number of visitors, and perhaps running a brothel in the midst of a quiet, respectable neighbourhood is not the best idea. On these grounds, I think I would agree. But there was more to it than that:
One neighbour said: '... It's disgusting. We just want them out and have a nice family move in.'
Ah, there we have it. It's 'disgusting'. The same word was used about the activities in the Spanner trial back in 1987, when 16 men were imprisoned for up to 4½ years for consensual sadomasochistic activity. I can't for the life of me see what justification the state has for punishing people for things they do in private and with others who consent to the activity, however mild or extreme.
That was, after all, the original argument for the decriminalisation of homosexuality. Fifty years ago, most people found homosexuality disgusting. But, so the argument went, if it's something that consenting adults to in the privacy of their own homes, what business is it of anyone else's what goes on? We seem to have got over our institutional 'disgust' about that particular tendency, but for others it seems that the opinions of our neighbours can still over-rule our rights to do what we want with our own rude bits.
I'm with Mrs Patrick Campbell: as long as they don't do it in the streets and frighten the horses, they can do what they like. And if it's a choice between freedom of action with your own body parts and "It's disgusting. We just want them out and have a nice family move in", then pass me the gimp mask.
Wrinkled Weasel has an interesting take on this here.
On the road again
It's still cold here, but not as bitingly cold as recently. The last week or so has been consumed with a family funeral (Anna's mother died a month ago and the funeral and memorial service were on Monday). This has meant a lot of to-ing and fro-ing in the car, which is never good for my equanimity. I have also been suffering with a head-cold, which has left me tired and with my nose streaming like a tap.
Today, however, I had an errand to run into town and thereabouts, and took the XT. With its newly-overhauled front brake and the tyres at the correct pressure (I hadn't checked them for ages and they were down by about 20%), the bike was a pleasure to ride.
Cobwebs blown away, cabin fever cooled a little.
Today, however, I had an errand to run into town and thereabouts, and took the XT. With its newly-overhauled front brake and the tyres at the correct pressure (I hadn't checked them for ages and they were down by about 20%), the bike was a pleasure to ride.
Cobwebs blown away, cabin fever cooled a little.
Blogging Dream
Oo-er. Last night I had a dream about blogging. Yes, blogging.
I was in a large room, like the lounge of a pub, with lots of seating and tables, and the room was sub-divided by panels and pot-plants and the like. It was very crowded, and I realised that I was at a meeting of bloggers. I knew (in the way that in dreams you just know something) that Chris Mounsey (of Devil's Kitchen) was there, as was Guido Fawkes, and someone from the famous Bishop Norton blog (I think I was conflating Bishop Hill with a village in Lincolnshire near where I used to live). There was lots of noisy chat, and I knew I was in exalted company. Old Holborn was there in his mask, and there was a lady sitting at a table amongst a group of women that I was sure was Juliette.
Bishop Norton kindly offered to give me some advice on how to make my blog more relevant and interesting, but when I went to the room he suggested for a quiet chat, he sent one of his minions, a girl called Anna, who was very tall and solidly-built (in real life, this girl works at the meat counter of my local supermarket). She told me my blog was dull and that I should stop writing things about myself and do more on current affairs and political scoops. I felt ashamed of my self-centredness and lack of talent.
The dream ended when the cat managed to open the bedroom door and did a triple pike with twist and reverse somersault from the wardrobe and landed on my stomach.
I'm still not sure I know what to make of it.
(I read once that people don't dream in colour. This one was most certainly in colour, but the colours were muted, as if the atmosphere was very smoky. Just sayin'.)
I was in a large room, like the lounge of a pub, with lots of seating and tables, and the room was sub-divided by panels and pot-plants and the like. It was very crowded, and I realised that I was at a meeting of bloggers. I knew (in the way that in dreams you just know something) that Chris Mounsey (of Devil's Kitchen) was there, as was Guido Fawkes, and someone from the famous Bishop Norton blog (I think I was conflating Bishop Hill with a village in Lincolnshire near where I used to live). There was lots of noisy chat, and I knew I was in exalted company. Old Holborn was there in his mask, and there was a lady sitting at a table amongst a group of women that I was sure was Juliette.
Bishop Norton kindly offered to give me some advice on how to make my blog more relevant and interesting, but when I went to the room he suggested for a quiet chat, he sent one of his minions, a girl called Anna, who was very tall and solidly-built (in real life, this girl works at the meat counter of my local supermarket). She told me my blog was dull and that I should stop writing things about myself and do more on current affairs and political scoops. I felt ashamed of my self-centredness and lack of talent.
The dream ended when the cat managed to open the bedroom door and did a triple pike with twist and reverse somersault from the wardrobe and landed on my stomach.
I'm still not sure I know what to make of it.
(I read once that people don't dream in colour. This one was most certainly in colour, but the colours were muted, as if the atmosphere was very smoky. Just sayin'.)
Tuesday, 2 March 2010
The Yorkshire Ripper
In 1976-77, I spent the best part of a year living with my parents and studying for an MA at the University of Leeds. I had already spent four years away from home, so I didn't really feel like staying in a lot and playing Scrabble with the mater and pater. And I was also a smoker, and they weren't. Hence, I spent a lot of time 'going for walks' in the evenings, around the streets of my youth. It was a bit of a strange experience, as up to the age of 18, I could walk round these streets and every few hundred yards there would be a mate's house, of a girl I fancied, or a pub I used to go in (and often get thrown out of). But that year, all the mates and the girls were somewhere else, and I've never been very good at drinking on my own. And the dog had been run over several years before, so there was no companionship at all.
As an only child, this kind of thing suits me fine. I am happy with my own company, and a few evenings strolling round empty streets, thinking my own thoughts, was quite a pleasant opportunity for reflection. The streets were utterly familiar, of course, with significant landmarks everywhere. I felt perfectly safe.
I had been away at Teacher Training College doing my post-grad Certificate when the Ripper murders started. The first attacks took place in the summer of 1975, but no-one linked them and they were not widely reported. The first time the police suspected that a serial killer was operating was when two Leeds women were murdered and mutilated in a similar fashion in late 1975 and early 1976. And then he struck again in May 1976 and then again in October. This was when the panic started amongst the general population. The coining of the term 'Yorkshire Ripper' by the press added to the feverish frisson that spread through the area. This was the time when I returned to Leeds for about 10 months.
It was creepy. While I was distressed about the murders (and who could not be?), I didn't buy the demonising rhetoric of the newspapers - especially the Yorkshire Evening Post, which practically wet itself with every new piece of information. We had a sad and dangerous man on the loose, who needed to be stopped, and stopped quickly, that was all. But how the whole business had affected people in general was brought home to me one night when I went for a longish walk - a 'three-cigarette' walk, as I termed it in my head. Past the children's home, then down the road to the bus station by the park, and back a different way for variety - about 45 minutes' walk in all. It was February 1977, and Irene Richardson had just been murdered on her way to a disco in Leeds.
The first thing that struck me as strange was how empty the streets were. OK, it was mid-evening in winter, and not the time or weather for promenading, but there were normally plenty of people about, walking to the pub or the chip shop. But that night, the streets were almost deserted. I remember feeling a shudder down my spine, partly from the cold and damp air, and partly from a feeling of unease. It was not that I feared being attacked - it was pretty clear that as a 23-year-old male I was not part of Sutcliffe's demographic - but it was the general atmosphere of fear and suspicion. I was walking down a broad, tree-lined street when I saw a woman walking towards me. About 200 yards away, she crossed the road and passed me on the other side. A little while later, a man did the same thing. This might be normal for London, or the Outer Hebrides, I don't know, but for Leeds it was pretty strange behaviour. Usually, you would pass someone and wish them 'good evening', stranger or not. It made me realise how much the panic had permeated through the whole of the public. I suppose all women suddenly regarded themselves as potential victims, and men as potential suspects. It wasn't a pleasant feeling.
The Times today reports that Sutcliffe is seeking release from his prison sentence, on the grounds that his conviction for murder was wrong. His psychiatrists at Broadmoor believe he is a paranoid schizophrenic, and therefore was suffering 'diminished responsibility' and should have been convicted of manslaughter.
Well, I am sorry, but I don't give a shit about that. What he did is unquestioned. The evidence was sound, and he confessed. What his state of mind was when he committed those crimes is, frankly, irrelevant. I don't care if he was plain evil, or hearing voices from God, or if he thought he was doing society a favour, or if he just did it for fun. He killed 13 women and grievously attacked several more. For that reason alone, society has the right to take him out of circulation permanently.
If there is a mad dog in the street, you shoot it. You don't ask if it had a hard upbringing and then offer it counselling. Afterwards, you might look into the circumstances and take steps to avoid it happening again, but that is later. You deal with the threat first, and the threat is all you need to know. I don't believe in the death penalty (although this case brings me close to changing my mind), but Sutcliffe should have been locked away for life. No minimum tariff, no parole board reviews, no time off for good behaviour. Life - meaning until he dies in prison. That is what the offences deserve, whatever his state of mind or mental health.
As I have commented before, once you break the law, you lose the protection of the law. You lose your human rights when you take away the human rights of others - and what right is more sacred than the right to continue living?
Some of his victims were prostitutes; others were not. I don't discriminate: each woman, whatever her path in life, was someone's mother, or daughter, or friend, or partner. Each had the right to live peaceably, and each had that right taken away brutally by someone who, for whatever reason, thought that he had the freedom to do so. Just their names, and the ages at which they died:
Wilma McCann, 28
Emily Jackson, 42
Irene Richardson, 28
Patricia Atkinson, 32
Jayne MacDonald, 16
Jean Jordan, 20
Yvonne Pearson, 21
Helen Rytka, 18
Vera Millward, 40
Josephine Whitaker, 19
Barbara Leach, 20
Marguerite Walls, 47
Jacqueline Hill, 20
The Yorkshire Evening Post was disgraceful in its reporting of the women's circumstances. Each report was heavy with implied condemnation of the victim as a 'prostitute' or a 'good-time girl'. The subtext was evident: if that's the kind of life you choose, that's the risk you run. The panic-filled reporting of the first 'normal', i.e. non-prostitute, victim laid so much emphasis on the 'innocence' of the victim that it made the newspapers' mindset very clear. Up till now, he's only killed women who deserved it and decent people were safe, but now it could be you.
I was pleased to note that the reporting of the killings of prostitutes in Ipswich in 2006 was very different, and mainly referred to the victims as 'women', treating their occupations as secondary. That's progress of a kind.
As an only child, this kind of thing suits me fine. I am happy with my own company, and a few evenings strolling round empty streets, thinking my own thoughts, was quite a pleasant opportunity for reflection. The streets were utterly familiar, of course, with significant landmarks everywhere. I felt perfectly safe.
I had been away at Teacher Training College doing my post-grad Certificate when the Ripper murders started. The first attacks took place in the summer of 1975, but no-one linked them and they were not widely reported. The first time the police suspected that a serial killer was operating was when two Leeds women were murdered and mutilated in a similar fashion in late 1975 and early 1976. And then he struck again in May 1976 and then again in October. This was when the panic started amongst the general population. The coining of the term 'Yorkshire Ripper' by the press added to the feverish frisson that spread through the area. This was the time when I returned to Leeds for about 10 months.
It was creepy. While I was distressed about the murders (and who could not be?), I didn't buy the demonising rhetoric of the newspapers - especially the Yorkshire Evening Post, which practically wet itself with every new piece of information. We had a sad and dangerous man on the loose, who needed to be stopped, and stopped quickly, that was all. But how the whole business had affected people in general was brought home to me one night when I went for a longish walk - a 'three-cigarette' walk, as I termed it in my head. Past the children's home, then down the road to the bus station by the park, and back a different way for variety - about 45 minutes' walk in all. It was February 1977, and Irene Richardson had just been murdered on her way to a disco in Leeds.
The first thing that struck me as strange was how empty the streets were. OK, it was mid-evening in winter, and not the time or weather for promenading, but there were normally plenty of people about, walking to the pub or the chip shop. But that night, the streets were almost deserted. I remember feeling a shudder down my spine, partly from the cold and damp air, and partly from a feeling of unease. It was not that I feared being attacked - it was pretty clear that as a 23-year-old male I was not part of Sutcliffe's demographic - but it was the general atmosphere of fear and suspicion. I was walking down a broad, tree-lined street when I saw a woman walking towards me. About 200 yards away, she crossed the road and passed me on the other side. A little while later, a man did the same thing. This might be normal for London, or the Outer Hebrides, I don't know, but for Leeds it was pretty strange behaviour. Usually, you would pass someone and wish them 'good evening', stranger or not. It made me realise how much the panic had permeated through the whole of the public. I suppose all women suddenly regarded themselves as potential victims, and men as potential suspects. It wasn't a pleasant feeling.
The Times today reports that Sutcliffe is seeking release from his prison sentence, on the grounds that his conviction for murder was wrong. His psychiatrists at Broadmoor believe he is a paranoid schizophrenic, and therefore was suffering 'diminished responsibility' and should have been convicted of manslaughter.
Well, I am sorry, but I don't give a shit about that. What he did is unquestioned. The evidence was sound, and he confessed. What his state of mind was when he committed those crimes is, frankly, irrelevant. I don't care if he was plain evil, or hearing voices from God, or if he thought he was doing society a favour, or if he just did it for fun. He killed 13 women and grievously attacked several more. For that reason alone, society has the right to take him out of circulation permanently.
If there is a mad dog in the street, you shoot it. You don't ask if it had a hard upbringing and then offer it counselling. Afterwards, you might look into the circumstances and take steps to avoid it happening again, but that is later. You deal with the threat first, and the threat is all you need to know. I don't believe in the death penalty (although this case brings me close to changing my mind), but Sutcliffe should have been locked away for life. No minimum tariff, no parole board reviews, no time off for good behaviour. Life - meaning until he dies in prison. That is what the offences deserve, whatever his state of mind or mental health.
As I have commented before, once you break the law, you lose the protection of the law. You lose your human rights when you take away the human rights of others - and what right is more sacred than the right to continue living?
Some of his victims were prostitutes; others were not. I don't discriminate: each woman, whatever her path in life, was someone's mother, or daughter, or friend, or partner. Each had the right to live peaceably, and each had that right taken away brutally by someone who, for whatever reason, thought that he had the freedom to do so. Just their names, and the ages at which they died:
Wilma McCann, 28
Emily Jackson, 42
Irene Richardson, 28
Patricia Atkinson, 32
Jayne MacDonald, 16
Jean Jordan, 20
Yvonne Pearson, 21
Helen Rytka, 18
Vera Millward, 40
Josephine Whitaker, 19
Barbara Leach, 20
Marguerite Walls, 47
Jacqueline Hill, 20
The Yorkshire Evening Post was disgraceful in its reporting of the women's circumstances. Each report was heavy with implied condemnation of the victim as a 'prostitute' or a 'good-time girl'. The subtext was evident: if that's the kind of life you choose, that's the risk you run. The panic-filled reporting of the first 'normal', i.e. non-prostitute, victim laid so much emphasis on the 'innocence' of the victim that it made the newspapers' mindset very clear. Up till now, he's only killed women who deserved it and decent people were safe, but now it could be you.
I was pleased to note that the reporting of the killings of prostitutes in Ipswich in 2006 was very different, and mainly referred to the victims as 'women', treating their occupations as secondary. That's progress of a kind.
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