Conservatives

Choo choo puff

The Minister and his wife should currently be in Bristol getting hammered with the Minister’s former colleagues from 2004-5.

We began our journey shortly before noon. We arrived at our local railway station to discover that the information boards were not working, the lifts were not working, the vending machines were not working and the trains were running late.

Delayed, our what-everyone-will-always-call-Thameslink train chugged slowly into Farringdon, where we transferred onto the Circle Line to take us six stops to Paddington.

Thanks to a “failed train ahead”, that six-stop, four-mile journey took 45 minutes.

Which meant we alighted at Paddington station mere minutes after the 1415 train for Bristol, on which we were booked, departed.

We went to the Ticket Office to ask if we could use our 1415 train tickets on the next Bristol train, departing at 1515.

The man at the Ticket Office sent us to the Customer Services Desk.

The woman on the Customer Services Desk told us she couldn’t help us and referred us to the Ticket Office.

Joseph Heller couldn’t have written this better.

Eventually we learnt we could either buy completely new single tickets for the 1515 (£48 apiece) or “update” our existing tickets, at a cost of a £15 admin fee and a £17 upgrade fee each.

We declined First “Great” Western’s generous offer and headed back home, courtesy of £17 in cab fare and £33 more in rail tickets to get us from St Pancras (which’ll look great once it’s finished) back home.

We unlocked our front door almost exactly four hours after we’d locked it.

It’s almost as though privatisation of Britain’s public transport system didn’t quite have the desired effect.

“We want the country to be able to regard the railways not only with affection but with pride.”
- Earl of Caithness, opening the debate on the second reading of the Railways Bill, 15 June 1993

“Rail privatisation will bring extra efficiency, free up investment, expand choice, enhance services that the customer wants. Privatisation should be judged by the result.”
- Brian Mawhinney, Department of Transport press release, 17 October 1994

Fucking Tory cunts.

Strictly Dumb Prancing

Peter Wilby has in today’s Guardian produced the most sensible column I have yet read on the state of the Brown administration’s current mauling at the hands of the meeja:

Personal data goes through the unregistered post every day. Bank statements contain sort codes and account numbers; notifications of pension increases include national insurance numbers. Almost certainly, many thousands go to the wrong addresses. In normal times, nobody thinks anything of it… [The British press] lacks a sense of proportion and its barbs are sometimes ill-directed… [Brown] may still win the next election, but the press will give him as rough a ride over the next few years as it gave John Major.

There may be a lot of meeja froth about at the moment, but I’m all in favour of anything that gets Vinny ‘Light Fandango’ Cable on the telly most nights: I’ve often wondered what happened to Penfold once Danger Mouse ended.

You choose your leaders and place your trust…

The Minister is unwell.  This morning I forgot my work badge and desk keys, briefly fell asleep at the wheel while on the A1(M) and then spilt my cup of tea all over the car park floor.  Something has to give.  At this rate it might well be the central reservation barrier.

The Minister’s car, dishwasher and central heating are also unwell.

It’s not easy being the Minister at the moment.

The Minister and his wife were delighted to spend much of the weekend slaloming around the nation’s motorway-and-cone network in order to do the 370-mile round trip to attend Beared Baby’s wedding in the middle of fucking nowhere in a God-forsaken hole of a hamlet outside Driffield (henceforth to be referred to as “Fuckingdriffield”) that, I am reliably informed, didn’t have a sewerage system until earlier this year and is in a county that doesn’t even exist (Humberside).

The northbound M18 possesses possibly the most depressing motorway sign in the country, heralding as it does the imminent proximity of that quadruple threat, Goole, Scunthorpe, Grimsby and Hull.  It doesn’t get much better when you hit the eastbound M62 and the signs start menacing you with Bridlington.

Still, there was the mild amusement of passing through Skidby and the “Please drive carefully” sign at its town limits.

And the enjoyment of remembering that heating systems in Yorkshire, like the people, have just two settings – “cloying sauna” and “frosty igloo”.

And at 104.9p per litre, the weekend set a new record for the price paid by the Minister for petrol.  Salt of the earth, though, Yorkshire people – they never fail to smile as they bleed you dry.

Roadworks, natives and signage aside, it was a “grand do” as the peasants say in the north.  It was particularly lovely to hear an almost entirely spherical female priest banging on in church about the importance of procreation in marriage when her companion to the reception appeared to be a fellow woman in comfortable shoes.  Square that circle, if you can, and I’ll attend the Alpha Course.

The Lancastrian groom may have thought the jibes in his speech about the locals’ accents went down reasonably well (and indeed they did with his family and friends), but the Minister’s Wife reports that the table containing his new brothers-in-law are very much looking forward to welcoming the newest member of their family just as soon as he dares to cross the county boundary once more.  “It’ll be lonely this Christmas without you…”

The repetitive thudding of massive potholes and the rhythmic snoring of the Minister’s Wife as the Minister drove EVERY SINGLE ONE OF THOSE 370 MILES provided an opportunity to muse on life, the universe and everything.

In summary, life sucks.  And the universe and everything aren’t in much better shape.

In a rare attempt to give credit where its due, I should say that Steve McLaren handled his final England press conference with a good degree of dignity and grace.  Speaking as an expert in leaving jobs, that takes some doing, however big the pay off.

But it’s the pay off that still narks me.  McLaren clearly would not resign because he knew that to do so would cause him to kiss goodbye to a reported £2½m.  It seems not to matter that he must therefore have already earned over £1½m in his 16 months in the job – £100,000 per match!  He has already been amply rewarded for failure – rewarded to the tune of more than half a century’s worth of national average salary.  By refusing to resign despite “taking responsibility”, he has been rewarded for failure twice over.

There was an appalling discussion on the risible Jeff Randall’s dreadful Weekend Business programme on BBC Radio Five Barely Alive last night in which the only example Randall and his guests could recall of an “honourable” resignation in business was, er, Gerald Corbett’s “resignation” as Railtrack Chief Executive in 2000.

Now forgive me for splitting hairs, but (a) Corbett’s resignation offer was not initially accepted by his “board”, (b) it only came after the third fatal rail disaster on his watch (the combined 38 dead at Southall and Paddington wasn’t enough; it took a further 4 cadavers at Hatfield to tip the scales), (c) he only “resigned” for a second time in a month because the government made him, and (d) the cunt still walked away with a full year’s salary (£400k) and £900k in pension benefits.

There is no accountability in British public life anymore, and while it’s obviously not the most pressing issue in 21st century Britain it is certainly one of the most depressing things.

The last person I can recall resigning without being pushed was Estelle Morris a full five years ago - and she still managed to bag a lesser ministerial role, a life peerage and a sheaf of private sector directorships into the bargain.  Before that and you’re back to 1982 and Peter Carington, the last British minister to resign voluntarily in response to a departmental failure.  So an entire quarter of a century has gone by without public life demonstrating to the great unwashed that there should be consequences to mistakes, incompetence and failure.

HM Revenue & Customs may be an independent body, but the taxman works for the Chancellor of the Exchequer.  The two Chancellors of the past decade bear ultimate responsibility for this unprecendented mess and for them to have allowed the HMRC head to take the blame is cowardly.

I’ll concede that it’s still too early to write off the Brown premiership – That Bloody Woman and Big Johnny Major would have given at least a limb apiece to be just 5% adrift in the polls at the halfway stage of a Parliament and with a Leader of the Opposition as derisory as Posh Boy Dave (actually, thinking about it, they did: Michael Foot and Neil Kinnock…) – but the most disappointing aspect to this sorry fiasco is that it could happen at all after a decade of Labour government, in particular the managerialist administrations of Blair and Brown.

Lacking any pretence of ideology, Blair and Brown have proffered nothing but managerialism for 13 years; if they have lost that (and the runes are not auspicious) The Project is all washed up.

Vitriol spent, the Minister and his wife send the new Mr. and Mrs. Baby much love and congratulations, a thank you for the invitation, and hope they are enjoying themselves on a three-week honeymoon to South America.  The gits.

Pursued by a bear

I paraphrase, but bear with me.

Mike Ingham (BBC Football Correspondent): Steve, you said yesterday there would be no excuses if we didn’t qualify.  Do you have any excuses?

Steve McLaren (soon-to-be former England football coach): No excuses.  I apologise to the fans – we let them down; we didn’t play well enough.

MI: What went wrong tonight?

SM: It’s too early to talk about that.

MI: Why did you feel the need to change the formation and team tonight?

SM: It’s too early to say.  I’m still trying to work out where it all went wrong.

MI: Will you be resigning?

SM: No.  But it’s too early to talk about that.  It’s too soon after the game to talk about my future.

MI: But do you take responsibility for failing to qualify:

SM: Yes, I take responsibility.  But I’m not resigning.  Besides, it’s too early to talk about my future.

MI: Would you like to stay in the job if you are given the opportunity to do so?

SM: Who said anything about leaving the job?  Anyway, it’s too early to talk about that.

MI: Would you like a cuddle now you realise just how woefully out of your depth you’ve been for the past 18 months?

SM: It’s too early to talk about that.

Now with the honourable exception of the Paul Gray, the recently departed head of HM Revenue & Customs, how bad does something have to be in 21st century Britain before someone admits that the buck stops with them?

The Child Benefit CD Fiasco™ is so catastrophic that the Tory front bench hasn’t even called on a Minister to resign.  Career politicians such as Posh Boy Dave and Posh Boy George apparently recognise that this one is so utterly fucked up beyond all recognition that, well, it could just as easily have happened to them – and if an Eton and Oxbridge education teaches you anything it’s to show your opponent a small degree of compassion. 

So let’s not put on the steel toe-capped boots for this kicking.  This is actually serious.  This is the sort of thing that would have seen honourable men and women fall on their sword pre-Thatcherism.  And honour went out of British politics circa 1979 (Lord Carrington excepted).

So let’s, in fact, genuflect before That Bloody Woman yet again, shall we?

Ignorant people sleep in their beds
Like the doped white mice in the college labs
And nothing ever happens, nothing happens at all.
The needle returns to the start of the song
And we all sing along like before.

End Of The Innocents?

It was as grimly fitting as it is profoundly depressing that news of the BBC’s decision to scrap its Rough Justice series after 27 years should emerge on the same day that a man was convicted of the 1975 murder of 11-year-old Lesley Molseed in West Yorkshire, hopefully closing the book on perhaps the most heartbreaking miscarriage of justice these islands have known.  “Hopefully”, because Ronald Castree, the man sentenced to serve a minimum of 30 years in prison for the crime, claims he too has been wrongly convicted.

A day later, the Court of Appeal yesterday began hearing the appeal of another dubious conviction, that of Barri White for the murder in 2000 of Rachel Manning, highlighted by Rough Justice – one of 32 such cases featured by the programme since it was first broadcast in 1980, and which has seen 15 convictions overturned, a remarkable strike rate of 50%.

And today the Court of Appeal has ordered a retrial of Barry George, convicted on the most risible of evidence of the murder of Jill Dando in 1999.  This appeal – George’s second – was partly initiated because of a Rough Justice-style Channel 4 documentary putting pressure on the Criminal Cases Review Commission (established in 1997 at least partially because of the public pressure brought to bear on the criminal justice system by outlets such as Rough Justice) to re-open the case.

I took Criminal Law in the first year of my degree, when I was still vaguely interested in my studies (something that changed when I realised most lecturers were as clueless as me) and legal matters (something that quickly passes with any exposure to legal practice).

Having grown up being forced to watch the local news programmes for Yorkshire (despite not living in that bloody county and trying hard never to set foot in it), I was already aware of the Molseed murder, the conviction of Stefan Kiszko and the campaign protesting his innocence waged single-handedly by his mother Charlotte.  (The case was not featured by Rough Justice itself.)

Kiszko had what are today called “learning difficulties”.  He lived quietly with his mother, worked as a junior clerk in the local tax office and had never been in trouble with the police.

Under massive pressure to bring Molseed’s killer to justice, the West Yorkshire Constabulary – at the time also trying to deal with Peter Sutcliffe’s earliest attacks – seemed to fixate on Kiszko to the exclusion of all other lines of enquiry.

The police interviewed Kiszko without cautioning him, refused his request to see his mother and failed to advise him of his right to consult a solicitor.  After two days of intimidating solitary questioning, Kiszko signed a ‘confession’ that the police produced to him, telling him that if he signed he would be allowed to see his mother.

The police charged Kiszko on the basis of that ‘confession’, because of claims by some local girls that Kiszko had exposed himself to them, and because Kiszko had jotted down in a notebook the registration number of a car seen in the area around the time Lesley Molseed disappeared.

At trial, Kiszko’s defence team made a series of mistakes.  First, they failed to request an adjournment when the Crown produced thousands of pages of additional evidence on the morning of the murder trial.  They also ran a defence of diminished responsibility (that Kiszko did not authorise) caused by medicine Kiszko was receiving for a hormonal complain that was both factually incorrect and in respect of which they failed to produce any medical evidence.  Further, they failed to call medical evidence in respect of a ankle fracture shortly before Molseed disappeared that would have made it all but impossible for the grossly overweight Kiszko to scale the hillside to the spot where Lesley Molseed was killed.

Meanwhile, the prosecution team failed to disclose to Kiszko’s lawyers that the semen sample given by Kiszko contained no sperm (a result of his hormonal condition), while the semen stains recovered by forensic pathologist Ronald Outteridge from Molseed’s underwear contained normal sperm levels.  Tragically, the defence team would have had a cast-iron case had they correctly presented the defence of Kiszko’s hormonal problems, as Kiszko’s endocrinologist would have pointed out his patient was infertile.

The jury at Leeds Crown Court did not believe Kiszko’s claim that the police had bullied him and convicted him of murder by a 10-2 majority.  During sentencing, Mr Justice Park described Kiszko as a “monster” and praised the “brave and honesty” testimony of the girls who claimed to have been the victims of Kiszko’s indecent exposure.  There were widespread calls, including from Lesley Molseed’s family, for Kiszko to be executed.

Kiszko’s first appeal, in 1978, was rejected out of hand.  A convicted child killer, Kiszko was attacked repeatedly while in prison, where he developed schizophrenia.  His refusal to admit his guilt to the Molseed murder meant that he was ineligible for parole; this refusal was itself decided by prison doctors to be a consequence of his mental illness, further rendering Kiszko unfit for release.

Throughout the 1980s the increasingly frail Charlotte Kiszko campaigned ceaselessly for her son’s release.  On 26 October 1989, Charlotte Kiszko and her son’s new legal team presented a petition to the new Home Secretary, the pro-capital punishment Tory MP David Waddington – appointed that same day – for an investigation into his conviction.

It was not until March 1991, by which time Waddington had been replaced as Home Secretary and taken up a peerage, that the Home Office reopened the Kiszko case.  The enquiry discovered the prosecution’s suppression of Kiszko’s medical evidence, uncovered two witnesses who placed Kiszko miles from the scene of the crime at the time it was committed and established that the teenage girls has lied about the indecent exposure incident “for a laugh”.  In light of these findings, Home Secretary Kenneth Baker ordered an appeal, but Kiszko’s mental health deteriorated and he was admitted to a psychiatric hospital in December 1991.

Stefan Kiszko’s conviction for the murder of Lesley Molseed was overturned on 18 February 2002, the second day of his appeal hearing.  In quashing Kiszko’s conviction, Lord Chief Justice Lane said:

“It has been shown that this man cannot produce sperm. This man cannot have been the person responsible for ejaculating over the girl’s knickers and skirt, and consequently cannot have been the murderer”.

The trial judge and the Molseed family publicly apologised for Kiszko’s wrongful conviction and their comments about him.  The three girls (now adults) who had admitted to making the false indecent exposure allegations against Kiszko, West Yorkshire Constabulary and Mr. Outteridge refused to follow suit.

Though technically a “free” man, Kiszko’s mental and emotional vulnerability was such that he was unable to leave hospital fully for a further nine months.  But the damage was in any event too great: a destroyed man, Kiszko suffered a heart attack and died on 23 December 1993, 18 years to the day after he signed the ‘confession’ that incarcerated him.  He was just 41 years old.  Charlotte Kiszko died four months later.

Upon his release, the Home Office had announced Kiszko would receive £500,000 in compensation for the 16 years he wrongly spent in prison.  He received an interim payment but neither Kiszko nor his mother received the full amount.

In 1994 the senior officer in charge of the Molseed murder investigation, Detective Chief Inspector Dick Holland (also a prominent detective in the Yorkshire Ripper investigation), and the now-retired Ronald Outteridge were charged with perverting the course of justice for their alleged suppression of evidence against Kiszko.  On 1 May 1995 the case against the two men was dismissed on the morbidly ironic grounds that the passage of time had made a fair trial impossible.   Holland died earlier this year; Outteridge gave evidence in the trial of Ronald Castree.

Stefan Kiszko’s defence barrister at his original trial was David Waddington QC, the same man who as Home Secretary sat on Kiszko’s appeal petition for 18 months.  He would go on to become Lord Privy Seal and the Governor of Bermuda.  He has never acknowledged any culpability in his conduct of Kiszko’s defence.

On the day after Kiszko’s conviction was overturned by the Court of Appeal, the barrister originally prosecuting Kiszko, Peter Taylor QC, was appointed the Lord Chief Justice of England and Wales.  He died in 1997 and also never acknowledged any fault in the case.

The publicity Rough Justice brought to the cause of convictions as unsafe and unsatisfactory as that of Stefan Kiszko has been utterly invaluable, the service it has provided immense.  The BBC’s claims that it will still investigate such matters as part of its discredited, revamped and risibly sensationalist Panorama provide little comfort.

British justice remains unwell.  But British public service broadcasting is dying.

Reality Bites

The BBC has removed a scene from a drama about Margaret Thatcher in which the former prime minister is seen to swear after complaints that she did not use bad language.

The forthcoming BBC4 film The Long Walk to Finchley, about Baroness Thatcher’s early life, originally featured a scene in which she screams “fucking establishment!” in frustration at what she saw as the male-dominated world of Tory politics.

Baroness Thatcher’s daughter Carol and others argued that she did not use bad language, even when under considerable pressure, and that it was unusual for a woman to do so in the 50s.

The BBC controller of fiction, Jane Tranter, has now confirmed that the scene will be cut from the final programme.

“It will not be included,” she told the Daily Telegraph.

“The primary reason for that is because we do not want to cause any offence to Margaret Thatcher.”

Check me if I’m wrong but this is a piece of fiction, is it not?  It surely must be if the “controller of fiction” (what a title) is overseeing the project.  Do we need to explain the concept of fiction to its supposed controller?  IT’S NOT REAL, LUV!

More pertinently, who gives a flyer if it offends That Bloody Woman?  She didn’t give a gnat’s chuff about whether I was offended by what she did.

And I was.

A lot.

So the fucking cunt can go and fuck right off.

If a Redwood falls in the forest, does it make a sound?

Hahaha!

The BBC has admitted it should not have used old footage of John Redwood to illustrate the launch of his plan to crack down on bureaucracy, but denied it has been dabbling in party politics.

Writing today on the BBC news editors’ blog, director of news Helen Boaden conceded that “in retrospect we weren’t right to use” 14-year-old film of Mr Redwood failing to sing the Welsh national anthem.

Speaking entirely personally – and not seeking to dabble in party politics at all - I can’t see this footage too often.

Can’t you just stop being funny for one moment?

Diary of the wet days by Armando Iannucci.

Monday I wake to scenes of natural devastation. All around me I see flood victims weeping, and all of them saying one thing: Why isn’t David Cameron here? Some of them, stuck in their upstairs bedrooms, have improvised makeshift signs from wallpaper and blood, spelling out IT’S IMPERATIVE THE LEADER OF THE OPPOSITION IS IN THIS COUNTRY TO TELL US WHAT HE’D DO IF HE WAS IN CHARGE.

With few words you can speak the truth

Bullseye.

On the steps of the presidential offices in Kigali, sheltered by a pergola from the burning midday sun, David Cameron turned to face a Rwandan television reporter. First, she wanted to know about his efforts to out-trump Labour on international development, and then she asked: “What do you have to say about continuing with your visit to Rwanda when part of your constituency is currently devastated by floods?”

The Conservative leader is not the first, or the last, politician to travel abroad and be dogged by questions on the home front; he might, however, be forgiven for not expecting a curve-ball to come from the direction it did.

A burst of surprised laughter went through the British media. With Rwanda’s president, Paul Kagame, by his side, the Tory leader smiled wanly and dead-batted the question.