Am I Human, No I'm a Police Officer: Domestic Abuse

 My biggest reason for joining the cops was to do with protecting weak and vulnerable people. I love the idea of riding quickly to someone's aid, whisking them to safety and/or vanquishing the foe. In short, bullies get my goat. I suppose that's why I hate Domestic Violence so much. People think Domestic Violence is about relationships or misplaced love. It's not: it's about power and vulnerability.

 Last week we were called to a Domestic Dispute at a house we knew well. We didn't need the radio operator to tell us of the long list of domestic incidents, nor the DV Marker on the premises; so we knew we needed to hurry up and get there. The front door was open and on top of the angry masculine shouts, we could hear furniture going over. This, it turned out was him trying to get to her as she scurried, animal-like out of his reach around the furniture. When we got in she was cowering on the floor in the corner, behind the dining table. She was about 7 stones wet through, lank mousey hair - in fact everything about her was mousey, probably because she'd never been allowed to be anything else. 

She stared up at us resentfully, wiping blood and snot from her nose, mascara all over her eyes. Don't be surprised it was resentment rather than gratitude. She knew from experience that the best way to get through it was to weather the storm until his anger was spent. Our intervention would probably only make it worse next time she incurred his wrath, by looking at him the wrong way or saying something during Hollyoaks or something. 

The moment that made me doubt myself was when we went through the door. The bastard stopped and turned as we shouted "Police!", and rather than run, or fight, he simply turned with a smirk, hands held up submissively. It was the smirk that got to me. I've seen that look a hundred times, it said: "Come on then, let's get it over with. Cart me off. She won't press charges and I'll be back tomorrow" Up until that point, everything about our approach had been professional: fast, safe driving, due consideration to the vulnerability of the victim, and a determination to do the right thing with the perpetrator, using all the criminal justice weapons at our disposal. When he smirked I wanted him to fight, to try to escape, to do something that allowed me an excuse to use as much lawfully justifiable force as I could; anything to release the choking lump of anger in my chest.

 In the event I forced him forwards, unresisting, over the table, dragging his passive arms behind him to cuff him, for the ride in the van to the station. I thought I was in control but as I ratcheted on the cuffs round his wrists, he shouted, "Agghhh, you bastard!" The metal bracelets of the Kwik-Cuffs had bitten deep into his flesh. Slackening them off I could see the red welts I had caused and wanted to think that I had simply cuffed him quickly, to restrain a violent offender as rapidly and safely as possible. But as much as that was partly true - after all it's what we're trained to do - it wasn't the whole story.

 I had wanted to lean over him, pushing his head into the table surface, put my mouth close to his ear and whisper: "How do you like it you snivelling piece of shit" I didn't do it; but I had wanted to. Why am I bothered? After all, we are only human aren't we? The point that's eating me is that the one thing that makes the difference between good and bad is no more than the split second it takes to decide. 

We could all go one way or another. In that tiny moment of time, I could easily have become just as big a bully - with my cuffs, my CS spray, my ASP baton and big gang of mates - as him. What scared me was how easy it would have been to have gone the other way. I can understand how soldiers do very bad things in war and how good people can go bad. I used to think that the 'thin blue line' was a reference to the small number of Police Officers lined up against a raging hoard, now I think it's a description of the line we have to tread.

 My dad always has something useful to say about stuff like this. This time he said two things. Firstly he pointed out that bobbies are sometimes given awards for heroic acts - we call them Commendations. I have never had one. My dad said that the really heroic acts aren't those done under extreme circumstances on the spur of the moment, but rather the small but equally as difficult decisions to do the right thing that we make dozens of times a week. So, I'm a hero in my dad's eyes - I like that. Then he said that it's not just me who has had to decide things in this incident. That mousey little weak woman also had to decide things: to stay or to go, for example. So, it's not my job to jump on the head of the bastard who beat her...I will go back to finish the job and help her decide to do the right thing. If you know someone who needs help, try this link.

Policing and Protests

I was mid rant this morning when I saw the front page of The Week magazine. It heavily criticised  the policing of the G20 demonstrations when a member of the public died. It accused us of all sorts of ill practice. It ignited me. 

Here is a calmer more reflective version of what I said: Whichever way you look at it we, the cops, are not particularly well thought of at the moment. My last blog post about the tightrope you walk between your desire to knee a bully in the balls and the steadying hand on the mental brake that prevents you, was almost prescient. 

First off my Easter weekend was messed up by a tosser of a boss who couldn't remember how to look after documents marked 'Secret'; or perhaps he was one of those bosses who think that sort of thing beneath him; perhaps his little man or woman was having a day off so he had no one to pop the documents into a secure briefcase or something. Either way, my Friday night out was messed up when my friend found he had to work.

 Then we have the G20 protests, and this is the biggie. I wonder what the percentage was of officers policing the demo who lost their rag and saw the red mist, or whatever you want to call it, and lashed out at someone? Against that backdrop now have a think about how many of the protesters' sole motive was to cause disruption, using violence to property or people.They were there in numbers, but they were peppered among the rightly indignant ones ones on a trip from church or WI Peace Group. This is the very effective tactic of those anarchist organisations there only to smash the machine and this is why we, the public and the police - because we, the police, are in both - need to have a good hard think about what we want. I find it hard to talk about the wrongs or rights of the G20 policing - after all, someone died maybe as the result of what one of us did, there's no getting past that. Equally another of us was sufficiently wound up like a spring by a female protester who admitted swearing and pushing the officer, who then maybe went to far in his use of reasonable force, we'll see what happens in the investigation.

 What I will say is don't be fooled into thinking that there is any sort of cover-up when it comes to the investigation, officers are genuinely put through the mincer to get to the truth. If any covering up is done, it is later and for political reasons beyond the rights or wrongs of front-line officers. The interesting question is about what we all want from our Police in situations like the G20 - the cops did what they thought their bosses wanted. If the style of policing - using coralling tactics - was hard and appeared brutal it was because that was what they had been told: stamp on it before the lid comes off. So what do we want? Are we prepared to allow public protests to explode from time to time so we can have freer demonstrations or would we rather put up with a bit of rough shoving and pushing to allow the police to stamp the mark of authority on a situation. I don't know. What I do know is that me and my colleagues will still be there doing whatever it is that the public decide they want from us. And that is what makes policing in this country still great. Gosh I feel better for that.

Police Anecdote No2.

 This story is about a cop we'll call Andy Jones. Andy was a right miserable bastard, a cynical grumpy long-in-the-tooth community bobby who was doing nothing more with his job than waiting to retire. Andy, like every cop, dreamed of the big jobs, the ones you hoped to be involved with when you join. He wanted to catch murderers and robbers; he didn't want to be doing what he was when our story starts:  stood guarding the door of an upstairs flat where a body had been found. He considered this job as one suitable for probationary constables, or in this day and age, a PCSO; not that Andy had anything better to be doing, he just didn't want to be doing this. 

The body was lying inside the sparsely furnished flat, currently surrounded by cops with more glamorous jobs than Andy: detectives wearing what they thought were sharp suits and white-suit-wearing crime scene examiners. The dead teenage girl was well known to the police as someone frequently reported missing from home and suspected of being a drug user. A neighbour had reported that the front door was insecure and that all was uncharacteristically silent inside the flat. It was unclear who the actual tenant of the flat in question was but it was a familiar hangout for local youths of dubious character. 
The flats were arranged in pairs with a landing at the top of the stairs having two front doors opposite each other. PC Andy Jones stood unhappily outside the potential crime scene muttering to himself about the unfairness of his being stood there. The door of the opposite flat opened and a fat man in his thirties wearing a stained vest and track suit bottoms filled the doorway. He had lank hair of a nondescript brown that was stuck to his head, he was wearing old-fashioned metal rimmed glasses and had not shaved for at least three days. He didn't speak to PC Andy Jones stood sentinel opposite; the best description of his demeanour was to say he was stood gawping. 
His presence irritated PC Jones who was distracted from his miserable musings by the intrusive presence of the neighbour. PC Jones was of the opinion that much of the current excessive demand suffered by the police was their own fault. He felt that the police had made themselves too friendly and approachable, he looked back to the days when the public wanted nothing to do with the police and sorted out minor problems for themselves. He also was of the view that Alexander Graham Bell had a lot to answer for: if the pubic had to walk half a mile in the rain to report an incident like-as-not much of the current dross the police dealt with would never come to their attention.  He tried to make it quite clear to the nosy neighbour opposite that he did not want to pass the time of day with him and scowled accordingly. But the neighbour continued to lurk, shuffling from foot to foot. 
Eventually PC Jones was so irked by his presence that he could no longer contain himself and burst out (having first made an unkind social judgement that it was highly unlikely that the man would complain about what was about to happen):

'What are you staring at? Fuck off back in your house and mind your own business!' said PC Jones. The man looked a little abashed but beat a hasty retreat.

As the result of diligent detective work and effective evidence gathering  a suspect was soon identified, arrested and interviewed. It turned out that the murderer had secretly loved the victim from afar until the day he plucked up enough courage to make a clumsy and ultimately fatal pass at her. Having committed the act and being unsure what to do next he had decided to keep her warm in front of a three-bar electric fire until something happened that would help him know what to do next - he was a simple soul. The account of his actions came pouring from him as soon as he was given the opportunity to unburden himself during the tape recorded interview in front of two detectives who couldn't believe their luck at this gushing confession. 

During the interview another interesting fact came to light that may have made the job of detecting the crime quicker and easier: 

'I wanted to tell someone what had happened, I didn't know what to do, I came to the door of my flat and saw the policeman outside her door I was trying to pluck up courage to tell him but he looked so mean I was scared, then he told me to fuck off back inside so I did.'

Poor grumpy PC Jones who only cared about how soon the end of his day came, and thus another day less of his career to work had missed his moment of glory:  the opportunity to detect a murder and arrest the murderer. 

Police Anecdote No1.

I previously published anecdotes from policing under a pseudonym, now I'm retired I can revisit these.  

I was promoted in 1997 to Longsight Police Station in inner city Manchester. The use of CS spray had just been authorised and we had all recently had our training in its use. During training to use CS spray, officers are taught that the spray forms crystals as it reaches its target causing streaming eyes and nose. The solution to these symptoms is to turn and face the prevailing wind where the crystals are blown away.  

On Bonfire Night I was the custody officer in the old Victorian police station. Just as an aside, it had a door that opened directly onto the main A6, Stockport Rd, out of Manchester. We often had people bang on the door to check whether one of their loved ones was in one of our cells - easier than trying to get through on the phone. 

We were warned of an incoming prisoner who had been restrained with the use of CS spray. Apparently the locals thought it was unsporting of the police to break up their bonfire after they pushed a stolen car on to it. This was the first time any of us had dealt with such a situation. It was also the first time that PC Jack Schmitt had deployed CS spray. 

Booking the prisoner in at the desk of the custody office PC Schmitt had an urgent need to attend to a call of nature so, with the custody officer’s blessing,  he used the facilities of the adjacent detention room. The inhuman wail that emanated moments later put prisoners in nearby cells in fear of torture; but the agonies of PC Schmitt were not the result of inhuman treatment but of his own failure to wash his hands that were covered in the remains of the discharged CS spray canister.

"Sarge, Sarge" he wailed, hoping I would have some solution to his dilemma. I hadn't but his colleagues had, suggesting he dangle the affected part out of the door onto Stockport Rd into the prevailing wind. 

How Being Less Active on Twitter Made Me a More Active Activist

During this year's Lent I had a 'fast' from all social media. It was interesting to notice what I missed and didn't miss: Facebook I've not bothered with since, but Twitter seemed a much harder habit to kick. I like to think I do a lot of my moral and ethical campaigning on Twitter - making sure that the voices of the big hitters on the issues I care about get heard, signing petitions and nudging those in power for example. 

As time went on though I found myself kicking my heels a bit with nowhere to add ranty comments or 'right on brother' back slaps to Tweets I agree with. One of the issues I felt cut-off from was plastic pollution. The mainstream news was sharing the horror of oceans barely visible through acres of plastic waste. It was absolutely vile and I wanted to shout loudly to whoever would listen that it must be stopped immediately. 

I found a bit of an outlet for my ire as I walked our dogs through Rocher Vale, a local post-industrial area of countryside along the river Medlock. I muttered about how much plastic litter there was and about how we have taught people to use the countryside as a leisure resource without teaching them how to look after it. Runners and cyclists pass through it with earphones in glad of the traffic-free paths yet oblivious to the natural world they pass through and casually toss a water bottle into. Similarly I railed at the laziness of fellow dog walkers who whilst being prepared to scoop up dog poop seem less willing to carry the bag more than a couple of hundred metres to a bin. 

Yes, all of these other people need to learn about how to look after the countryside, we need a national strategy to reduce single use plastic and educate people. 

And yet, in the end I don't think many of those people are likely to change their behaviour very much. Most of the people I rant with on Twitter think like me, they probably watch Countryfile and love David Attenborough, they are not the people who throw plastic bottles into the countryside willy-nilly. 

So how are we to reach all of these bad people, the lost causes who we look down on from our moral high ground. 

Well we're not going to are we, certainly not in the short term. 

I've just had a look at some of the pictures and videos of the state of our seas being shared on Twitter  for Earth Day. They are awful and you can see how many people agree that they are awful by the number of times that they have been retweeted:  thousands and thousands of them. Let's hope all this sharing makes a difference. 

Back on my dog walk I had a moment of epiphany: there was a way that I could have a real impact on the environment even without retweeting. I spotted an empty two litre bottle of Coke that someone had left on the river bank together with crisp packets and biscuit wrappers, the remains of an impromptu picnic by the looks of them. It was a mess and a gust of wind would soon whip the bottle into the river and off it would go ocean-bound. 

I bent and picked up the bottle, and the packets and wrappers and immediately the area looked better than when I arrived. It was that easy. Nobody else was going to make a quicker more obvious impact on the environment there and then than me. The thing is, once you've done it and realised how easy it is to make the environment better when you leave than when you arrive, it becomes a bit of virtuous circle: you like the look of the countryside without plastic so you see some plastic so you remove it and the countryside looks better. 

You should try it. I'm back on Twitter and I couldn't help but think, when I was looking at all the self-righteous comments and retweets today that if for every one of them a piece of rubbish was picked up, that's an awful lot of plastic not going to the ocean. 

Also just think how much higher the moral high ground will be when you pick up the plastic AND do the retweet and the smug comment!
  

Rewilding Myself

I have previously, at length and loudly, said I don't like the New Year celebration. You can read why here. This year however New Year's Eve  finds me coincidentally reflective, not because of the occa

Rocher Vale, Oldham

sion just because I am. 

When I retired people spoke about retirement as a thing: something you go from your job to, something you embark upon. In reality you go from the job that, to a greater or lesser extent, defined you to this vast amorphous expanse of yourself. People tell you that you find yourself busier once retired than you were when working. This is true but I only recently understood why. 

I am a fan of post-industrial countryside. Particularly the landscape that surrounds Oldham: Park Bridge and Rocher Vale are among my favourites. Great swathes of land scarred by the iron works and coal mines that helped forge the Industrial Revolution. These are now once more areas of natural beauty  given over to nature they provide homes for an array of flora and fauna. You can see the great sandstone remains of mills and mines swathed in honeysuckle and ivy; the kingfisher and heron hunt in the river Medlock that was previously too polluted to sustain the fish that feed them.

When I retired I felt that I was giving myself my life back, surrendering it once more to its natural state where life's riches could re-inhabit it. 

Despite my hankering for nature's wildness I find myself however scrambling with the dogs over areas of Rocher Vale where nature truly has taken hold, struggling to make headway where the undergrowth is thick with brambles, and where fallen trees bar the way. After a while the going gets too tough and I seek for a way back to well-trodden paths. In reality we are only happy with so much untamed wilderness, we like a nicely maintained path that allows us to make our way with relative ease while enjoying nature having its way nearby. 

And this is the life-point I find myself at: complaining that my time is not my own, that other things have grown seemingly unchecked into areas that, with hindsight, they are not that welcome. 

So the result of this reflection is that the time is here to start identifying destinations and laying paths to get there. This means - to continue the metaphor- pulling back some of the undergrowth to reclaim some ground, and then to enjoy the wildness where I want it.

Happy new year!  

Review: Martin Carthy, Band on the Wall.

I wouldn't go to watch Deep Purple last year, nor would I wish to watch the Rolling Stones anytime soon.

 I have the view that music evolves and grows, at least if it is alive and thriving it does. So the thought of seeing older men trying to recreate facsimiles of what they did forty years ago does not appeal. 

Martin Carthy is 75 years old, he has a musical track record of 60 years creativity with landmark examples along the way: his guitar technique, and collaborations like the Imagined Village a few years ago. 

Anyone expecting him to recreate his sparkling finger-dancing form of years gone by may have been disappointed yesterday evening. 

What we were treated to, as Martin stood alone with his two guitars on the Band on the Wall stage, was an entirely honest performance, no not performance, a sharing. 

Carthy demonstrated what age means: not some desperate scrabble to cling onto what our bodies are telling us we should let go of; but an acceptance of ourselves as we are now, and an acknowledgment of our ability to continue to offer something very worthwhile, yet different. 

The songs may have been familiar - that is in the nature of traditional music, many of these songs have been around for centuries - but the delivery was different. Not flashy but steeped in depth and wisdom. 

I find this refreshing. At 75 Carthy isn't the oldest folk singer to be performing. Shirley Collins recently returned to singing after an absence of 30 years. At 80 years Collins released her acclaimed album Lodestar last month, again a voice completely different from that we remember from Lark Rise To Candleford in 1978 yet beautiful nonetheless. 

There is hope for music; both youth and age have a part to play in keeping music alive and live.