I presume everyone’s seen this by now? The challenge is to come up with something to justify how the police behaved - I don’t think it’s possible.
Disregard the other unconfirmed elements of the case – the reports that Ian Tomlinson had already been attacked with batons in a neighbouring street; that he had nothing to do with the demonstration the police were there to suppress; that the police officer hit him with a baton before the shove; that he died 10 minutes later from a heart attack – forget all that, just focus on what is actually visible in the clip itself.
I’ve heard the following spurious excuses already:
1. Tomlinson was drunk.
2. He was deliberately pissing the police off by walking slowly.
3. It was high spirits - the police were ‘psyched up’ and ready to face an angry mob.
4. Tomlinson was a protester and had been causing trouble moments before.
5. He was muttering insults and goading them under his breath.
None of these count, they’re all completely irrelevant. If Tomlinson was drunk, so what? If he was walking slowly just to annoy the police, aren’t they professional enough to deal with it in a civilised manner? Who cares if they were ‘psyched up’ - football fans get ‘psyched up’, nightclub bouncers get ‘psyched up’ – does that give them the free-reign to beat up anyone they want? Even if Tomlinson had been a protester; even if he’d been witnessed lobbing a brick at a squad car and was wearing a T-shirt that said ‘fuck the police’; even if he’d called the officer’s mother a rabid whore – it still doesn’t justify how he was treated.
You might try and formulate some kind of argument based on ‘reasonable force’ but that would also be bollocks. Reasonable force, as defined by the Crown Prosecution Service, means that you can only use ‘such force as is reasonable in the circumstances’. That means it’s got to be proportionate to the threat. If a police officer is in danger of being attacked or killed, they can use whatever means available to defend themselves. An unarmed man walking slowly with his hands in pockets – how much of a threat was he to a police officer dressed in full riot gear? Enough of a threat to approach him from behind and shove him so hard that he’s knocked off his feet and falls face first to the pavement?
It’s worrying that if he hadn’t had a heart attack minutes later, we might not have heard about this. It also makes you wonder how many other similar incidents happen – incidents behind the locked doors of cells or on streets where there isn’t an American fund manager recording things on his phone. But it is encouraging that the footage has generated as much interest as it has and that people seem to be genuinely outraged.
Therefore, for the good of our country, I hope that nobody manages to come up with an excuse that justifies the police officer’s behaviour. If someone does and people accept it, it’ll be a sure sign that our democratic and civilised society really is falling apart. If we start fearing the police and allowing them to wield their power indiscriminately, it’s only a short step to outright oppression and abuse. Then we’ll lose the liberty and freedom of speech that enables us to complain about things like this in the first place.
11 April 2009
03 April 2009
Rela-a-ax
There was a famous television advert for British Rail in the late ‘80s. Shot in luxuriant, deep hues, the camera moved through a spacious train as trees and fields sped past the window. A singer with a chocolaty voice lazily drawled over the top:
Any time you choose, kick off your shoes (on the floor of a carriage, the heel of a discarded stiletto curls up cosily over the rest of the shoe),
Rest your weary eyes and catch up with the news,
A favourite book will be the perfect company (a penguin on a book cover stretches and leans back against the oval of its logo),
Rela-a-ax.
Forget about your blues – you’re doin’ fine (an old man and a young boy are playing chess – a couple of the pieces stretch and yawn),
Leave your cares and worries far behind,
Loosen up your tie, let the world speed by (a businessman’s polished shoes turn into comfy slippers),
Rela-a-ax.
It looked ace. Who in their right minds would want to drive when trains are like that?
However, that ad is twenty years old. I think it might need updating. Here’s the journey I took on Sunday – if any marketing executives are reading, they’re welcome to use it in one of their campaigns.
Exeter to Sheffield. A direct train departing at 4:38pm, arriving at 9:19pm. It was long journey but I had a seat reserved, I had my book – the perfect company – I could even have a bit of a nap. Four and a half hours isn’t so long when you’re able to rela-a-ax.
However, Exeter St. David’s was utter bedlam. A train had been cancelled. Inevitably, that train was mine.
I’d no idea why it was cancelled, nobody did, not even the staff. Nobody even knew if there would be a replacement arriving any time soon. I asked a nice, smiley lady at the counter but apparently her sunny disposition was the only skill she brought to her role, as she was useless at anything else.
‘Oh, the Leeds trains have been arriving every so often. I don’t know why this one has been cancelled.’
‘Is there likely to be another one setting off soon?’
‘There might be. It could be a few minutes, it could be several hours – I hope not though!’ she beamed.
So do I. Bitch.
A swarm of disgruntled customers was buzzing round a harassed man in a luminous tabard. He was telling them to get the train to Paddington then change at Reading to get a connection northwards. The Paddington train left in two minutes so we all rushed to Platform 3 and wedged ourselves inside the carriages like veal calves.
The train then stood there for 45 minutes while a driver arrived from Bristol. It was a scheduled service, what the fuck was he doing in Bristol? Other trains came and went – including another Paddington train that left from the platform opposite and was practically empty – and the man in the tabard was now overheard telling people to change at Taunton, which added some confusion to break the monotony.
Once the journey was underway, a heavily accented driver told us over the speaker in hushed tones – as if it was a secret – that all passengers from the cancelled Leeds train should get off this one at Taunton and catch the one behind that would take us north.
OK then.
I got off at Taunton and waited for the train which turned out to be 30 minutes behind ours and was due to terminate at Birmingham. That doesn’t sound very northern to me.
I got off at Taunton and waited for the train which turned out to be 30 minutes behind and terminated at Birmingham. That doesn’t sound very northern to me.
There was a Leeds train due in 45 minutes later – should I chance that one instead? Was it running on time? Would it even pass through Sheffield? There was one single staff member at the station sat behind a wall of plexiglas at the end of an enormous queue, nobody else at all – not even a bloke in a tabard giving out conflicting advice on a whim.
Playing it safe, I got the Birmingham train. It took three hours.
Three hours sat next to the obligatory youth with the ‘shhht, shhht, shhht’ of dance music blaring out of his earphones.
Three hours of avoiding the mad, drunk woman with a booming voice and savage looking dog, who talked at anyone who paid her the slightest bit of attention. I had to duck down to try and avoid eye contact whenever she zigzagged up the aisle.
It wasn’t very rela-a-axing. Nor was there much opportunity to rest my weary eyes and catch up with the news, as I had to keep on full alert for further announcements over the tannoy. At Bristol, for example, they calmly told us that the train would be splitting in two and the back half would be staying behind. They told us this just as they shut the doors and we were about to pull away. Mercifully, I was in one of the front carriages, but that was pure luck. Passengers getting on here were also told that their seat reservations no longer applied due to a ‘mess up’.
Birmingham. We were late arriving so I missed my connection to Sheffield and had to wait an hour there.
Never mind, rela-a-ax.
I smoked a cigarette. I had to walk about half a kilometre away from the station before I found an area that wasn’t plastered with No Smoking signs.
I went to the loo. It cost 30p.
I asked for a complaint form at the information desk. They’d run out.
I bought a sandwich from a shop at the station. Station shops are just like normal shops except that everything they sell is 50% more expensive.
I tried to discard my rubbish responsibly. Bins are banned at stations now – they’re too much of a terrorist threat. I walked around the building until I found some huge, smelly wheelie bins tucked away round the back. They all had locks on them.
Astoundingly, the train to Sheffield arrived on time. Presumably, its last stop had been somewhere in the 19th century as it was the slowest train I’ve ever travelled on. I don’t say that lightly. In the past I’ve travelled across the vast open plain of nothingness between Adelaide and Perth. A journey where the horizon is empty enough to see the curvature of the earth and, because the temperature is so hot, the tracks are almost at melting point and the train must go at snail’s pace so as not to buckle them. I’ve also travelled in rural Thailand where you keep your bags buckled to yourself to avoid the hawkers and thieves and the train is followed by packs of stray dogs because the toilet is an open hole in the floor emptying straight onto the tracks.
At least the Thailand train had a toilet. The Sheffield one didn’t, it was out of order. This didn’t stop the interesting smell from permeating through the whole carriage, though. Maybe that 30p was worth it after all.
The mad, drunk woman with the dog was still haunting me, so I headed straight for the ‘Quiet Zone’ without realising that this is the carriage where everyone goes to use their mobile phones. I sat fuming for another two hours, mentally playing out the conversation I’d have with the conductor when he questioned my ticket. Unfortunately, I was even denied the pleasure of a decent argument, he just snipped it without comment.
By the time we pulled into Sheffield at nearly midnight, my carriage looked as though it was carrying refugees back from a war zone. In the same time and for the same price, I could have flown to New York.
Forget about your blues – you’re doin’ fine
Leave your cares and worries far behind
That advert seems so out of date now doesn’t it?
I’ve got a new concept. How about a boardroom full of fat, greasy, capitalist fat-cats with jagged teeth, black rimmed eyes and stained suits? They’re talking about how to improve the rail ‘service’, discussing what they can get away with charging, how much the public will take before they finally crack.
‘30p for using the bog.’
‘No, Laurence, are you mad – they’ll never swallow that!’
‘Of course they will Geoffrey, what other choice do they have? Take away their bins as well – that’ll teach them, bunch of ignorant proles. Mwaaah-haa-haa!’
‘Martin, another cognac, pronto.’
The fat-cats then pass their scheme to a group of marketeers with sharp suits, gelled hair and shiny skin. They spin and mould the idea into something that sounds vaguely rational and acceptable before giving it to the monkeys to implement. These monkeys have glazed eyes and a bewildered expression. They’re just like the flying ones from The Wizard of Oz except they’re wearing name-badges and corporate waistcoats. They don’t have a clue what’s happening outside of their narrow little tunnel of existence and it doesn’t even interest them – they’ve got their job to do and nothing else matters.
If they put the prices up again – and they’re bound to soon, it’s been a couple of months since the last increase – I’m going to save up and buy a helicopter. It’ll be a lot cheaper and a damn site less stressful.
Any time you choose, kick off your shoes (on the floor of a carriage, the heel of a discarded stiletto curls up cosily over the rest of the shoe),
Rest your weary eyes and catch up with the news,
A favourite book will be the perfect company (a penguin on a book cover stretches and leans back against the oval of its logo),
Rela-a-ax.
Forget about your blues – you’re doin’ fine (an old man and a young boy are playing chess – a couple of the pieces stretch and yawn),
Leave your cares and worries far behind,
Loosen up your tie, let the world speed by (a businessman’s polished shoes turn into comfy slippers),
Rela-a-ax.
It looked ace. Who in their right minds would want to drive when trains are like that?
However, that ad is twenty years old. I think it might need updating. Here’s the journey I took on Sunday – if any marketing executives are reading, they’re welcome to use it in one of their campaigns.
Exeter to Sheffield. A direct train departing at 4:38pm, arriving at 9:19pm. It was long journey but I had a seat reserved, I had my book – the perfect company – I could even have a bit of a nap. Four and a half hours isn’t so long when you’re able to rela-a-ax.
However, Exeter St. David’s was utter bedlam. A train had been cancelled. Inevitably, that train was mine.
I’d no idea why it was cancelled, nobody did, not even the staff. Nobody even knew if there would be a replacement arriving any time soon. I asked a nice, smiley lady at the counter but apparently her sunny disposition was the only skill she brought to her role, as she was useless at anything else.
‘Oh, the Leeds trains have been arriving every so often. I don’t know why this one has been cancelled.’
‘Is there likely to be another one setting off soon?’
‘There might be. It could be a few minutes, it could be several hours – I hope not though!’ she beamed.
So do I. Bitch.
A swarm of disgruntled customers was buzzing round a harassed man in a luminous tabard. He was telling them to get the train to Paddington then change at Reading to get a connection northwards. The Paddington train left in two minutes so we all rushed to Platform 3 and wedged ourselves inside the carriages like veal calves.
The train then stood there for 45 minutes while a driver arrived from Bristol. It was a scheduled service, what the fuck was he doing in Bristol? Other trains came and went – including another Paddington train that left from the platform opposite and was practically empty – and the man in the tabard was now overheard telling people to change at Taunton, which added some confusion to break the monotony.
Once the journey was underway, a heavily accented driver told us over the speaker in hushed tones – as if it was a secret – that all passengers from the cancelled Leeds train should get off this one at Taunton and catch the one behind that would take us north.
OK then.
I got off at Taunton and waited for the train which turned out to be 30 minutes behind ours and was due to terminate at Birmingham. That doesn’t sound very northern to me.
I got off at Taunton and waited for the train which turned out to be 30 minutes behind and terminated at Birmingham. That doesn’t sound very northern to me.
There was a Leeds train due in 45 minutes later – should I chance that one instead? Was it running on time? Would it even pass through Sheffield? There was one single staff member at the station sat behind a wall of plexiglas at the end of an enormous queue, nobody else at all – not even a bloke in a tabard giving out conflicting advice on a whim.
Playing it safe, I got the Birmingham train. It took three hours.
Three hours sat next to the obligatory youth with the ‘shhht, shhht, shhht’ of dance music blaring out of his earphones.
Three hours of avoiding the mad, drunk woman with a booming voice and savage looking dog, who talked at anyone who paid her the slightest bit of attention. I had to duck down to try and avoid eye contact whenever she zigzagged up the aisle.
It wasn’t very rela-a-axing. Nor was there much opportunity to rest my weary eyes and catch up with the news, as I had to keep on full alert for further announcements over the tannoy. At Bristol, for example, they calmly told us that the train would be splitting in two and the back half would be staying behind. They told us this just as they shut the doors and we were about to pull away. Mercifully, I was in one of the front carriages, but that was pure luck. Passengers getting on here were also told that their seat reservations no longer applied due to a ‘mess up’.
Birmingham. We were late arriving so I missed my connection to Sheffield and had to wait an hour there.
Never mind, rela-a-ax.
I smoked a cigarette. I had to walk about half a kilometre away from the station before I found an area that wasn’t plastered with No Smoking signs.
I went to the loo. It cost 30p.
I asked for a complaint form at the information desk. They’d run out.
I bought a sandwich from a shop at the station. Station shops are just like normal shops except that everything they sell is 50% more expensive.
I tried to discard my rubbish responsibly. Bins are banned at stations now – they’re too much of a terrorist threat. I walked around the building until I found some huge, smelly wheelie bins tucked away round the back. They all had locks on them.
Astoundingly, the train to Sheffield arrived on time. Presumably, its last stop had been somewhere in the 19th century as it was the slowest train I’ve ever travelled on. I don’t say that lightly. In the past I’ve travelled across the vast open plain of nothingness between Adelaide and Perth. A journey where the horizon is empty enough to see the curvature of the earth and, because the temperature is so hot, the tracks are almost at melting point and the train must go at snail’s pace so as not to buckle them. I’ve also travelled in rural Thailand where you keep your bags buckled to yourself to avoid the hawkers and thieves and the train is followed by packs of stray dogs because the toilet is an open hole in the floor emptying straight onto the tracks.
At least the Thailand train had a toilet. The Sheffield one didn’t, it was out of order. This didn’t stop the interesting smell from permeating through the whole carriage, though. Maybe that 30p was worth it after all.
The mad, drunk woman with the dog was still haunting me, so I headed straight for the ‘Quiet Zone’ without realising that this is the carriage where everyone goes to use their mobile phones. I sat fuming for another two hours, mentally playing out the conversation I’d have with the conductor when he questioned my ticket. Unfortunately, I was even denied the pleasure of a decent argument, he just snipped it without comment.
By the time we pulled into Sheffield at nearly midnight, my carriage looked as though it was carrying refugees back from a war zone. In the same time and for the same price, I could have flown to New York.
Forget about your blues – you’re doin’ fine
Leave your cares and worries far behind
That advert seems so out of date now doesn’t it?
I’ve got a new concept. How about a boardroom full of fat, greasy, capitalist fat-cats with jagged teeth, black rimmed eyes and stained suits? They’re talking about how to improve the rail ‘service’, discussing what they can get away with charging, how much the public will take before they finally crack.
‘30p for using the bog.’
‘No, Laurence, are you mad – they’ll never swallow that!’
‘Of course they will Geoffrey, what other choice do they have? Take away their bins as well – that’ll teach them, bunch of ignorant proles. Mwaaah-haa-haa!’
‘Martin, another cognac, pronto.’
The fat-cats then pass their scheme to a group of marketeers with sharp suits, gelled hair and shiny skin. They spin and mould the idea into something that sounds vaguely rational and acceptable before giving it to the monkeys to implement. These monkeys have glazed eyes and a bewildered expression. They’re just like the flying ones from The Wizard of Oz except they’re wearing name-badges and corporate waistcoats. They don’t have a clue what’s happening outside of their narrow little tunnel of existence and it doesn’t even interest them – they’ve got their job to do and nothing else matters.
If they put the prices up again – and they’re bound to soon, it’s been a couple of months since the last increase – I’m going to save up and buy a helicopter. It’ll be a lot cheaper and a damn site less stressful.
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