Ed Lines

I HALF expected a snotty letter from the West Yorkshire Police press office this week, telling me I was bang out of order with last week’s column about a pal who got hospitalised by a gang of Asian youths on his way home from the pub.
Maybe I’d get a call from the Chief Superintendent – it used to happen – briefing me on things. How it was ‘quiet’ because the boys in blue were at a delicate point in a major operation.
I should know better than that, eh?
Firstly, I couldn’t even tell you who the chief super is. After Barry South decamped the police management team to Huddersfield, they apparently installed a revolving door for the senior stooge – that way no single police chief touches down long enough for s**t to stick to his CV. Genius.
If I don’t know who the Chief Supt is, then he probably thinks Savile Town is somehow akin to Savile Row. Don’t go there to try to get a traditional handmade silk suit, officer.
Not unless you like going out for dinner looking like you’re wearing your best pyjamas.
Still, the prospect of a law enforcement hero who dresses up looking like Zorro? That has a certain appeal in this neck of the woods.
Perhaps we could do with a vigilante lawkeeper round these parts – which is probably what things will come to before the fools playing hide and seek behind their desks in Huddersfield are crowbarred into taking these matters seriously.
What makes this issue more poignant is the news this week that the Metropolitan Police are finally bringing murder charges against two of the thugs alleged to have killed Stephen Lawrence, a young black man minding his own business, motivated by nothing more than the colour of the youth’s skin.
The boy’s parents, Neville and Doreen Lawrence, have shown huge dignity over the 18 years since their loss. We can only hope that they now, finally, get justice.
The crime was awful enough in itself, but it was compounded by such gross and callous incompetence and negligence by the investigating detectives, that it changed the entire nature of British policing.
The subsequent inquiry found that the Metropolitan Police was “institutionally racist”. It was, and remains, a stick that every police force in the UK – not just the Met – has been bludgeoned with, from that day to this.
Sometimes it may have been justified, but mostly it’s been a convenient weapon of the liberal left, and of wisedup ethnic minorities, used so often, and so successfully, that it dictates the DNA of much of British policing – back off copper or we’ll cry ‘racist!’
Many of the attitudes prevalent in the Met in 1993 have long been disabused, and rightfully so.
But what our experiences here in Dewsbury, Batley and Heckmondwike tell us, witnessed by the events I recounted last week, the letter on page eight today, and the guilty silence all around, is that the police are in fact still institutionally racist.
It’s just that the racism has been turned around 180 degrees.

A RARE thumbsup to a politician – Defence Secretary Liam Fox whose overstretched resources mean it won’t be long before he has to pull a regiment out of Afghanistan in order to put on a parade for the next Royal wedding or funeral.
He kicked off to David Cameron over the massive – increased – budgets we are spending on what is laughingly called ‘Overseas Development’ but is actually just bribes for thirdworld dictators with bigger armies than ours.
“We have a duty to the poorest in the world even at times of hardship at home,” whined Cameron in response, actually managing to keep a straight face. Some actor, that boy. Slippier than even his posterhero Tony Blair.
KEN CLARKE was a pompous buffoon long before the Tories crowbarred him into his latest Justice Secretary job to tick the ‘old fogeys’ box on their equal opportunities list.
A journalist of my acquaintance doing some TV interview training with thenChancellor Clarke said “excuse me sir, but you do know you come across as very arrogant,” to which Clarke beamed “thank you very much!”
His comments about degrees of rape were hardly as offensive as the howling banshees of Ed Miliband’s hairy harem have made out, but he should still be sacked.
Not for the comments – but because he’s outoftouch with the public mood on the justice system, completely up himself, and soft in the head. Oh, and he’s a lawyer.

Apparently if I drink six cups of coffee a day I’ll never get prostate cancer and if I drink two glasses of red wine every evening, I won’t get a heart attack.
I might die of sleep deprivation though, from being up and down to the bog for a jimmy riddle all night.
Meanwhile my favourite local chippy has thankfully resisted the pressures of the food police to use a salt shaker with a reduced number of holes.
So far I haven’t seen anyone taking a bite of their fish butty and collapsing in a heap on the doorstep, but presumably it can only be a matter of time.
I don’t know what difference salt shakers with seven holes rather than 20 (or whatever) is supposed to have, other than creating slightly longer queues, as customers shake for a few seconds longer than normal.
Ha! Didn’t think of that, the health Nazis, did they?
Given that the salt shaker in our kitchen has only one hole in it, the ‘experts’ probably estimate that I must have a heart like a lion and less cholesterol than a pipe cleaner. Unless of course I sit there shaking my oneeyed salt over my fryup until I have a bicep like Popeye.
Didn’t think that one through too well, did they?
The fact is, at a time when every public agency in the land is having to save money, there is still apparently more than enough to pay idiots who come up with tripe like this.
None of these people are ever from the private sector. They’re all employed by universities or publiclyfunded – me and you funded – quangos.
You could save the public purse a fortune, and the public a shedload of stress, by giving these comedians their cards.
And it isn’t just food and drink.
I never wanted a dog, but now we have one, our Arthur is my bestest pal. Loyal, loving, obedient … everything you’d like to think you get from the wife and kids but usually don’t.
But he’s still a dog. A pet – something I apparently can’t call him any longer, because some wishywashy professor of something completely worthless, has decided it infringes his animal rights.
For crying out loud. Now even my dog’s feelings trump mine. How long before I’m sleeping under the stairs in a smelly basket and he’s tucked up with the Sky remote?
Actually, forget the mad professor. Some nights in our house, that’s already the natural way of things…

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