A Policeman’s Lot

By Frank P.

The recent witch hunt against the Police, orchestrated by the mainstream media, but actually initiated by the ‘Plebgate’ incident, appears to be intentionally both baneful and baleful. Po-faced politicians like Keith Vaz sitting in judgement of HM Constabulary nationwide and pronouncing some coppers as mendacious and ‘misleading Parliament’, adds a touch of hilarity to this otherwise serious development in the cultural life of this country, within which effective policing is even more essential to the wellbeing of its citizens than ever before. It is rather like Machiavelli and cohorts complaining that Girolamo Savanorola was a dodgy sky-pilot.

So before we all jump on the bandwagon and contribute to the complete destruction of what is left of morale within the police ‘forces’ of this country, perhaps we should attempt to put into perspective the incident which kicked off all this nonsense in the first place; then examine the motivation of those wishing to take the opportunity to destroy the reputation of The Job and complete the conspiracy initiated by the Gramsci inspired culture warriors, who have been ‘at it’ since the 1960s – attacking first from outside, then later from inside, HM Constabularies as part of their ‘Long March through the Institutions’.

“A policeman’s lot” is indeed “not an ‘appy one”, as Messrs Gilbert & Sullivan correctly observed (and put to music). But has it really become much worse since the Pirates of Penzance first hit the stage at the Opera Comique in Wych Street, East Strand (now Aldwych) back in 1880? Then HM Queen Victoria’s Commissioner of Police for the Metropolis was Lt Colonel Edmund Henderson KCB. If you think things are bad now, then cop this little tale of ‘trouble at t’Yard:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Edmund_Henderson

The 59-year old Henderson’s curriculum vitae cited his various roles (apart from a distinguished military career, including surveying the western half of the boundary between Canada and New Brunswick, which had been ceded to Britain by the United States), such as Comptroller-General of Convicts in Western Australia;  Home Office Surveyor-General of Prisons – and Inspector General of Military Prisons. If even he could not keep a grip of the sharp end of the business of the boys in blue and their new-fangled detective colleagues (four of the first of whom got nicked for corruption) in a force of about seven thousand officers, then it’s hardly surprising that Sir Bernard Double-Barrelled from ‘oop nowarth’ is having a bit of bovver with the current lot numbering some 35,000 (notwithstanding that most of his immediate subordinates have had the benefit  of a university education, Bramshill brainwashing – and have been subject to fast-lane promotion in order to exercise their superior academic skills in confronting the villains on the streets of Londonistan – not to mention the full time professional criminals who haven’t yet joined the Job – as they are doing fine, as things stand.

So now let’s return to Downing Street, remembering that the offending gate in ‘Plebgate’ was constructed for reasons that would have chimed in the grave of old Sir Edmund, a copper who came a cropper, mainly because of the activities of the Fenians – the forerunners of those who caused the gates to be placed where they are – the Provisonal IRA.  That has hardly been mentioned in the furore of the past few months. It seems mainly forgotten that it was only in 1989 that the gates were constructed as a result of bomb attacks on the mainland of Britain by the Provos, including a determined attempt to kill Margaret Thatcher at the Tory Conference in Brighton, injuring and killing several of her colleagues in the process. The new gates of No. 10 didn’t deter the boyos however, as they managed to pop three fizzers over the gates through hole in the roof of a white van parked in Whitehall – and almost wiped out the Cabinet – again – after John Major had managed to do what the IRA had failed to do: ousting Maggie from No.10 (and almost copped his on that day, too, gates notwithstanding, so to speak). This account from Wiki sums it up fairly accurately:

On the morning of 7 February 1991, the War Cabinet and senior government and military officials were meeting at Downing Street to discuss the ongoing Gulf War. Those present at the meeting included John Major, David Mellor, Douglas Hurd, Tom King, Norman Lamont,Peter Lilley, John Wakeham, Robin Butler, David Craig, Patrick Mayhew, Percy Cradock,Charles Powell and Gus O’Donnell.^[6][9] As the meeting began an IRA member was driving the transit van to the launch site, at the junction of Horse Guards Avenue and Whitehall close to the headquarters of the Ministry of Defence, approximately 200 yards (200 m) from Downing Street,^[3][8] amid a heavy snowfall.^[10]

On arrival, the driver parked the van and left the scene on a waiting motorcycle.^[8] Several minutes later at 10:08 am, as a policeman was walking towards the van to investigate it, three mortar shells were launched, followed by the explosion of a pre-set incendiary device. This device was designed to destroy any forensic evidence and set the van on fire.^[8] Each shell was four and a half feet long, weighed 140 pounds (60 kg), and carried a 40 pounds (20 kg) payload of the plastic explosive Semtex.^[11] The type of device used by the attackers was a Mark 10 homemade mortar, according to the British designation.^[12] Two shells landed on a grassed area near the Foreign and Commonwealth Office and failed to explode.^[3][8] The third shell exploded in the rear garden of 10 Downing Street, 30 yards (30 m) from the office where the cabinet were meeting.^[8][11] Had the shell struck 10 Downing Street itself, it is probable the entire cabinet would have been killed.^[11][13] On hearing the explosion the cabinet ducked under the table for cover. Bomb-proof netting on the windows of the cabinet office muffled the force of the explosion, which also scorched the rear wall of the building and made a crater several feet deep in the garden.^[1][3][4]

Once the sound of the explosion and aftershock had died down, John Major said, “I think we had better start again, somewhere else.”^[14] The room was evacuated and the meeting reconvened less than ten minutes later in the underground bunker known as the Cobra Room.^[1][3] No members of the cabinet were injured, but four people received minor injuries, including two police officers injured by flying debris.^[4][10]

Prior to 1989 anyone could walk up to the door of No.10 and engage John Sercombe, an erudite PC pal of mine from my Notting Hill stint, who decided to see out his 41 years service on the staff of No.10, or any of his colleagues (armed with nothing more than 10 inches of lignum vitae), in pleasantries or banter as the occupants of the historical gasworks passed in and out, discharging the duties of HM Government.

In those days of course Members of the Cabinet tended to use their bikes on their holidays in Cornwall or Tuscany, arriving for work in their chauffeur-driven Humbers, which seemed a little more appropriate, until that journalist dickhead from the Spectator, with a side-line in TV comedy, decided that he could usurp Red Ken from the Mickey Mouse Mayor of London boondoggle – and also upstage Cambridge as the biking capital of England, by turning central London into a velodrome and most of the political class into Lycra-kinks.

What I’m really saying, is that if the likes of  PC Sercombe or any of his ilk had been confronted with a prattish MP with a bike, taking a shortcut through the security protocols, there would have been short sharp exchange, advice given, and if not taken, said MP would have been marched along to Cannon Row nick and put on the sheet for Obs Pol (Obstructing a police officer in the execution of his duty) – no verbals – just the facts skipper.

More likely though, Sercombe would have smiled sweetly, let him through, then later had a word in the ear of the PM over a coffee in the back office and something like this would have ensued.

PCS: “Sorry to trouble you about a trivial matter, Guv’nor, but young Mitchell is being a bit of a pain in the arse with that bike of his. He doesn’t appear to realise that the gates are there to keep the enemy out, rather than as a wrought iron decoration. Can you have a word in his ear and remind him of Airey Neave; the Brighton Bombing and the fizzers that finished up in the back garden in ’91. What we’re facing now with suicidal nutjobs is even more crucial if they see a chink (sorry  – I meant breach – ‘scuse my Cantonese) in the armour”

PM: (chuckling) “Thanks John, I’ll whip him into shape”. (winks)

PCS: “Thanks Guvnor, a stitch in time saves a stitch-up later, dunnit?” Winks back, finishes coffee after a short chat about the cricket scores. No sweat – sorted!

But of course, in those days Willie Whitelaw would never have turned up for work on a bike would he? Nor would he have referred to his police security staff as “You fucking people!” Or indeed ‘plebs’ (which, of course, prat with bike denies).

In these modern days of ‘modern enlightened policing’ prat with bike meets jobsworths and it all kicks off. And that’s just the beginning of an ensuing three ring circus. Prime Minister accepts MP’s resignation and turns the circus into Whitehall Farce. (And that reminds me – Brian Rix and Buster Edwards – déjà vu all over again for those a little long in the tooth with good recall).

The Federation turns it into a political squabble over pay and conditions and cuts, then itself becomes another parade of prats, suffering a Star Chamber hearing by MPs who are no better’n they should be themselves. Dire!

Now the IPCC, who share the same acronym as another set of useless money wasting parasites, suddenly realise that they will have to redeem themselves by doing what they should have done in the first place:  stamping their foot in a timely fashion instead of waiting for the top plods to procrastinate and prevaricate over a silly, silly, clash between a bullshitting biker and a couple of jobsworths.

This has the Lib-Lab-Con political class salivating as it gives them a chance to get even and impose further cuts in policing and selling off more police real estate; the MSM are rubbing their hands in glee as the Old Bill get their comeuppance after hounding the press in the aftermath of the Leveson Inquiry and current trials; the Gramsci-inspired moles see the whole shooting match of police and politics descend into chaos, which was their objective all along.

All for the want of a horseshoe nail…. (aka PC Sercombe).

As one who has in recent years expressed dismay and even fury at the small minority of people inside The Job who have betrayed its principles and practices; dealt corruptly with crooks and the tabloid press ; diluted The Job’s recruiting criteria; displayed cowardice in the face of three decades of ‘political correctness’ and unfair tarring a whole service with allegations of racism and corruption; pandered to rigged inquiries conducted by naïve or leftist judges, I nonetheless maintain that the good work done by 90% of those who wear the blue melton or who staff the CID squads, has kept us armchair critics safe in our beds by taking on the duties that most would shrink from doing – and putting their lives on the line daily as a matter honour; the vast majority of them displaying integrity, bravery and patience in the process. Those are the people that deserve our support. The general carping and sniping against The Job in general is unworthy of those who want Britain to be better; want things done the English way. We should demand that the politicians stop politicising policing; stop diminishing pay and conditions of service; insist that value for money emanates from police officers; re-establish morale and good manners. If we allow the politicians and then press to shred the reputations HM Metropolitan Police and her County Constabularies; then the cost to our culture will be severe and probably terminal.

As for you wet-behind-the-ears college boys masquerading as Police Chiefs, read the history of your predecessors, warts and all; not as delineated by your leftist leaning tutors from Academia as they laid it on you; speak to those who were at the sharp end when there was still a semblance of common sense on the streets of English cities. And fight for the only people who can really restore the reputation of the Police; those who answer the calls from the public, rather than the politicians upon whom you think you rely for further advancement. And make sure that the lads and lassies are there and probably equipped both cerebrally and otherwise when someone in trouble needs them.  Then both the public and your ‘subordinates’ will show their gratitude, the former by satisfaction at a job well done – and the latter  by efficiency and goodwill to the customers – and perhaps to you, too., if you play your cards right.

And those ex-Commissioners sleeping and polishing the red benches of the Westminister Gasworks. Ahoy there! Earn your exes and your privileges by sorting out these young stroppy politicians with their PPEs and big ideas. Issue a few caveats. You owe us old sweats that much at least. And at least one of you owes me a lunch and a chat in those hallowed halls; your ears must be burning. Sad that John Hoddinott didn’t make it through the night. The best Commissioner the Met never had.

As for you, Mrs May. WTF!!?? Get a grip, woman!  In the nicest possible way – of course.