I'm am not a parent, I have little interaction with children, except for my niece who I have all the time in the world for. But I used to be a kid myself, and remember lifts to scouts, swimming, and the occasional school run.
I'm wondering, in the post-peodophile future, when all our children are safe, next month in fact, what happens if parent no. 3 on the giving lifts rota fails the ISA check? We could be liable for a fine of £5,000. I guess if we all chip in its only a grand or so each, or divvy it out proportionate to the number of children, sorry parent no. 2.
I mean for the past X years he's given the kids a lift to scouts/swimming/school and never fiddled with any of them (we checked), but for some reason the Independent Safeguarding Authority have decreed that he can't be trusted with kids, but well, he's not in prison so he's atoned for any sins, and they're not going to arrest him of anything. Do we still keep him on the rota?
1) We could boot parent no. 3 off the rota, to protect our own kids, just in case and avoid the fine. But then that means the others on the lift giving rota have to do more lifts, and what about his own kids, well, we can boot them off the rota cos they were little brats, but our own hypothetical kids seem to get on well with them. It seems a shame, but its for their safety.
2) Do we stop taking the kids to scouts/swimming/school, its more hassle than its worth and they prefer staying in with the xBox 360 anyway. We can just send them on the bus to school, they'll be fine on their own.
3) Do we trust our own judgement on the issue and keep parent no. 3 on the rota, doing the lifts as he's always done. Cos after all we know him far better than the ISA. The ISA have been around for a few hours now, we've known him since school, and since he first met his wife, she was fourteen, he was eighteen, there was that controversy, oh hang on, ahh. Still they've been together for years now and seem quite the happy family, and well we are responsible adults with our senses intact.
4) Is there some way perhaps to appeal the ISA decision? Is it going to involve weeks of forms and emails and letters and hassle? Possible some kind of sworn testimonial which will involve a day off work or handing over more personal information to the some independent authority who have a track record of handling personal information?
Showing posts with label accident. Show all posts
Showing posts with label accident. Show all posts
Saturday, 12 September 2009
Monday, 6 April 2009
The final moments of Ian Tomlinson
I don't wish to contribute any text to this story that might crop up as google juice, but these are all the images I can find of Ian Tomlinson's final staggered moments and the google street view locations, in approximate time sequence.
Google Streetview location
View Larger Map
Google Streetview location
View Larger Map
Flickr image here
Another fine blogpost which might be helpful in a public/blogger investigation is this one at Bristles Blog from the BunKRS
RalPress has identified a couple of CCTV cameras that may cover the area where the death occurred with links to google streetview
Google Streetview locationView Larger Map
Google Streetview locationView Larger Map
Flickr image here
Another fine blogpost which might be helpful in a public/blogger investigation is this one at Bristles Blog from the BunKRS
RalPress has identified a couple of CCTV cameras that may cover the area where the death occurred with links to google streetview
Monday, 30 March 2009
Our Health and Safety shame
Via Samizdata, from The Times
The behaviour of the police kind of reminded me of what happened at the 2002 Mecca Girl's School fire in Saudi Arabia where the polis prevented rescuers from entering the build for fear of coming into contact with women
Back in the UK The Samizdata piece goes on to cover the Watts Memorial / Postman's Park:-
Co-incidentally I was reading about Postman's Park earlier today on Caroline's Miscellany. Those who died saving lives are remembered more than a century later.
Beware the snivelling creatures that Health & Safety has turned us into.
A pregnant woman, her husband and their three-year-old son were killed in a house fire early yesterday as police who arrived before the fire brigade prevented neighbours from trying to save them. The woman screamed: “Please save my kids” from a bedroom window and neighbours tried to help but were beaten back by flames and were told by police not to attempt a rescue.
...
“There were lads with aluminium ladders who wanted to get to them but the police were shouting, ‘Stay away, get out of the yard.’ They were saying, ‘You have got to wait until the fire brigade gets here.’ Michelle was standing at the window banging on it – we all saw it – and shouting to save her kids but the police were just below her pushing us out and telling everybody to stay away.”
...
A South Yorkshire Police spokeswoman said: “The senior officer in charge is confident we handled this incident as professionally as possible. In a situation like that you could end up with more deceased bodies than you had in the first place.”
The behaviour of the police kind of reminded me of what happened at the 2002 Mecca Girl's School fire in Saudi Arabia where the polis prevented rescuers from entering the build for fear of coming into contact with women
It has been claimed that Members of the Committee for the Propagation of Virtue and the Prevention of Vice (CPVPV), also known as Mutaween, would not allow the girls to escape or to be saved because they were 'not properly covered', and the mutaween did not want physical contact to take place between the girls and the civil defense forces for fear of sexual enticement, and variously that the girls were locked in by the police, or forced back into the building.
Back in the UK The Samizdata piece goes on to cover the Watts Memorial / Postman's Park:-
The memorial was set up by a Victorian artist, George Frederick Watts, to commemorate those who died saving others. It consists of hand made plaques each bearing the name of a person who sacrificed his or her life and a brief citation. Very quaint they are, with their crowded lettering with the extra-large initial capitals and little swirly plant motifs and curlicues in the corners. Even the names are quaint, laboriously given in full. Police Constables Percy Edwin Cook, Edward George Brown Greenoff, Harold Frank Ricketts and George Stephen Funnell are among them. I wonder what PC Percy Edwin Cook, for instance, who perished when he "Voluntarily descended high tension chamber at Kensington to rescue two workmen overcome by poisonous gas" would have made of his successors in the South Yorkshire force.
Co-incidentally I was reading about Postman's Park earlier today on Caroline's Miscellany. Those who died saving lives are remembered more than a century later.
George Funnell, a 33-year-old ex-soldier turned police constable, was on his beat in Hackney when he noticed a fire in the Elephant and Castle pub on Wick Road. After raising the alarm, he rushed into the burning building: the landlady and two barmaids were still inside. First he brought out the landlady, then one of the barmaids. Now burnt himself, he nonetheless went back in for the third woman.
PC Funnell reached the woman, and directed her to a back door. However, he himself was overcome by the heat and smoke. The woman escaped into the street, but by the time rescuers reached Funnell he was unconscious and burned on the face, neck and arms. Eleven days later, on 2 January 1900, he died of his injuries.
The inquest jury commended Funnell and his colleagues for gallant behaviour. The Society for the Protection of Life from Fire gave awards to those colleagues; during the ceremony, Mr G B Fordham commented that "he died the death of a thoroughly brave and sincere man" giving his life for three women who were strangers to him. Funnell's funeral was attended by several hundred police officers and firemen, as well as local people. A memorial committee was set up to support his wife and two children. His memorial plaque reads:
GEORGE STEPHEN FUNNELL - POLICE CONSTABLE - DEC 22 1899 - IN A FIRE AT THE ELEPHANT & CASTLE, WICK ROAD, HACKNEY WICK, AFTER RESCUING TWO LIVES, WENT BACK INTO THE FLAMES, SAVING A BARMAID AT THE RISK OF HIS OWN LIFE.
Beware the snivelling creatures that Health & Safety has turned us into.
Wednesday, 17 December 2008
Help
I will pay £100 to the first person who can enable me to access my hotmail account.
Here's the problem:-
I forgot my password.
When I click the forgot password link it takes me to a page where it asks for my windows live id, this is my email address, it is manc_ill_kid@hotmail.com, its the email account that I cannot access. On this page there is also a captcha box.
When I fill it in it takes me to another page where it only says it will send the reset password information to my manc_ill_kid@hotmail.com email account.
The help link says that there should be options to send the password reset information another email address, but when I do it, this isn't the case.
Also the help link says that there should be an option to answer a secret question to access the password reset information, this option isn't there when I do it.
Its like I've locked myself out, they've changed the locks and put the new keys through the letterbox.
I was in Currys buying a new laptop to replace the broken one, when my phone rang, some job I applied to yesterday, offering me an interview tomorrow. They said they were emailing me the details of where and when, and the email would go to my hotmail account. That's why I so urgently need to access my email. and that's why I'm up for paying a vast sum of money to gain access.
Here's the problem:-
I forgot my password.
When I click the forgot password link it takes me to a page where it asks for my windows live id, this is my email address, it is manc_ill_kid@hotmail.com, its the email account that I cannot access. On this page there is also a captcha box.
When I fill it in it takes me to another page where it only says it will send the reset password information to my manc_ill_kid@hotmail.com email account.
The help link says that there should be options to send the password reset information another email address, but when I do it, this isn't the case.
Also the help link says that there should be an option to answer a secret question to access the password reset information, this option isn't there when I do it.
Its like I've locked myself out, they've changed the locks and put the new keys through the letterbox.
I was in Currys buying a new laptop to replace the broken one, when my phone rang, some job I applied to yesterday, offering me an interview tomorrow. They said they were emailing me the details of where and when, and the email would go to my hotmail account. That's why I so urgently need to access my email. and that's why I'm up for paying a vast sum of money to gain access.
Thursday, 10 July 2008
Soul
Have signed up to SoulMates on the Guardian websitey thing. Kind of like bowing to pressure, I have my doubts.
My profile is here
My cow orker suggested that getting to the top of the most popular profiles list is something to aim for, so feel free to have a look, call your collegues over and get them to have a look too.
I had to resist the urge to just write about killing people, killing lots of people, in the 'why shoul people get to know me' and 'perfect match' descriptions. I fear being arrested as a murder suspect.
Sunday, 25 May 2008
Monday, 10 December 2007
Happy Birthday (Judo not required)
Blog temporarily made private over the weekend cos Andy Hart found it offensive and was being a dick as always. I had not enough time and inclination to sort it. But now I have.
Photies from Glasgow
here
Report from the weekend in Glasgow below...
Friday - 19:23
I sit, at long last, on the plane,
my fate in the hands of a pilot. I am
helpless.
Not quite enough time in the airport to
buy snacks, too much queuing for security, foreign
folk needing to queue jump to avoid missing their
flight. At the check in desk, so paracitic
credit card chugger. I script in my head what
I'd say, I'd ask if he has a credit card,
one of those, and does he pay it in full
every month. Does the 16% APR look set
to be reduced in line with interest rates and isn't
10.5% profit a bit steep?
The bus dropped us off, leading to
a frantic dash to the check in desk, this
immaculately designed building raped with security
barriers, they look temporary, in that way
that things do after they've been in place for
fice years.
Was running late to get out of work,
firing of a final salvo to Anorak. Why
is it always antagonistic and confrontational
Is it me? No, cos even when I'm not
there Tasty fires salvos, even when I don't
mention stuff, Tasty brings things up.
Maybe he has never stopped loving me.
It ain't healthy, this running through
my head.
"It might help if you asked The
Plimptons to write some good songs" quoth he.
"If they did, would you listen?" Untyped.
The chap sat next to me is getting
frustrated. "Fuck" he says,. The plane isn't due
to leave for another five minutes.
The stewardess with the mic is amusing.
Two lost passengers, are we sure we're
not them? Are we sure we're going to
Glasgow?
Friday - 21:37
The venue isn't open yet, The Beat Club
375 Sauchiehall Street, so I head to ra
Noodle Bar for ma dinner.
Somewhere behind me and to the left a
chap from my first year at university is having
food with his friends.
Since I stepped off the airport bus,
Central Station stop, I've been filled with
glee, I'm home and dry. The streets warm and
embracing, familiar and safe.
This one time I ate in here before a
Belle & Seb gig at the ABC, there was a
crowd of ten or so of us, bickering over eating in
or take away.
Saturday - 00:47
The Beat Club is dark and neon lit when I wander
in, through the murk I see Paul Smith
of Pin Up, and thence emerges Martin Smith
and in the distance Adam, friends. I spot
five or six people, Plimps and entourage. On
stage are some noisy shoegaze Oasis kids. If
they weren't too young I'd figure they were taking
the piss.
Text message from Robbie, he's round the
corner at The State, and seconds later, I'm there
too. Finton Stack, and a chap called Anders, the
name's a little familiar, but I've never seen
him before in my life.
The chaps are there sampling beers
uninterested in joining me at the Plimptons gig
probably awaiting the new album rather than
internecine gigging.
We chat, time passes and I return to
Pin Up Nights.
It was years ago, 1999 when I
first met John D McGonagle, one of the
founders of the Pin Up Nights franchise, him and a chap
called Graham. We'd been competing against
each other in the elections to be student
president at Strathclyde.
I didn't see John D at the gig, thing
slowly fall apart I guess.
Excitement buids before the Plimps take
to the stage. I recognise folk in the
crowd, the smiley foreign lass from
Sounds of Sweden, Chris, Dave and
Katie from the Just Joans, ancient
scenesters from long ago.
The place explodes when the Plimps
take to the stage.
They have the new album in their
minds, still raw, not recorded. The
band all psyched, Rowan smiling eyes
asparkle, Martin overcome by crazed animal spirits,
Cal the youngester fitting in neatly to the six-piece,
Adam twitching by the mic, on home turf, Neil
back to the audience sorting out levels on his
bass, Paul - eyeliner.
Whilst there are still the regular old favourites in the
set, Could I Be Loved and John Major, they
take the opportunity of a full band to play the
more complicated stuff from their 2004 debut
album and earlier demos, The Plimptons Rap
even gets an airing.
Tracks from the third album include Lonely
Old Man, who's MySpace references could date quickly
and Virgin on the Ridiculous, which sounds
terrifyingly like Elvis Costello, Paul Kelly's influence
in the song writing.
Most terrifying of the evening are the
people dancing, looks of glee on the audience's
faces isn't enough, there are mobs of
complete strangers dancing in front of the
stage, folk coming up and shaking Adam's
hand after the show.
What have they
gained since I left?
Text message from the girl, she's just
finished work, Robbie, Finton, and Anders
are there so I head off.
---
The next day, the weather's shite
as we head off to the farmer's market in
Partick, on a quest for duck eggs and
homemade sorbet.
Some further acquaintance from uni is
running one of the stalls, selling porridge oats,
my eyes glaze over as I try to recall
how I know him, but the moment passes.
Robbie and Finto are there,
four of us head to a bearby Polish Deli
for pickles and kabanos. In Glasgow its
still a novelty instead of the norm.
The weather's still crap as we sit
in The Three Judges. I leave myself at
the combined mercy of the others' expert
knowledge of fine beers and ales.
The rain is torrential with blobs of
snows, the girl's feet soaked, when we
call round at my old flat to pick up
mail. A good carrier bag full for
me to wade through an hour later at
the Bon Accord as we're served a
succession of Bloody Mary derived drinks.
The one with floaty nits of horseradish
is unexpectedly
pleasant, but
would be a
task to persuade
others to sample.
An indian
takeaway, the
film Chopper
with Eric
Bana and NCiIS
on the TV.
Its dark and wet out when we
stagger into The Cellers. Used to be the
Brunswick Cellers back in my day, now its still
cold and gloomy but utterly without soul.
Flatmate Alan and his wife Claire are here
for my birthday. They haven't seen us since
the wedding, two months ago, they
bring gifts. I melt in a gooey mess of
happiness, leaving Natalie and Alan to
do the talking. The Wolfknuckles soldier on,
Iain Thornton is still around, no one's
seen Teamie in months, the old club nights
are achanging, naked woman on fliers.
Bis still playing gigs. Working over
Christmas. Teamie appears, the
descent of the Winchester, change, change,
change.
Drinks are drunk and baby its time to
move on.
The weather's still crap as me and
Natalie find The Flying Duck, the entrance
is hidden, but inside its homely. We
strangely see Bis's Sci-Fi Steve fluttering
down the corridors like the fifth Doctor,
before we pay in and retrouve Robbie and
Finto.
The latest version of that crowd is here,
faces missing, far away, unexpected face
now here, like Big Duncan and Wake The
President, last see in London just days
before.
Robbie dragging me to the dancefloor for the Rutles.
Nat dragging me to the dancefloor for some other dancing
Me dragging Robbie to the dancefloor via Gav for Hectors
Natalie taking photies of the boys, looking cool
Fear / jealousy of Natalie and Finto chatting and flicking through my camera, then remembering faith and the phrase 'true blue'
Flashes of years gone by, similar folk dancing similarly
Somethings change, but not everything
Text message from the ex-wife, she'd just finished work and wanted to know where we were, battery on my phone failed before I could reply.
For a few seconds I thought it could be awkward were she with us.
Robbie mentioning some sad news about an ex- in London. Feelings of helpnessness "But I should do something"
More booze, more dancing.
Trying to get Ally to play Pipettes.
Trying to get Ally to put on more bands at the Winchester
Replying to Colin's post on Anorak offline.
Switching on lamps and eating cashew nuts, pilferred from the night before.
Dancing to Stone Roses.
Smiling at Finto and Nat dancing to Pulp. Did I really drag him out to the Winchester?
Did I have fun, damned right, didn't
even have to apply Mental Judo.
Next morning we stagger to the
bus station. A man dies of a heart attack
in Waterstones. I step onto the Megabus
and vanish.
Photies from Glasgow
here
Report from the weekend in Glasgow below...
Friday - 19:23
I sit, at long last, on the plane,
my fate in the hands of a pilot. I am
helpless.
Not quite enough time in the airport to
buy snacks, too much queuing for security, foreign
folk needing to queue jump to avoid missing their
flight. At the check in desk, so paracitic
credit card chugger. I script in my head what
I'd say, I'd ask if he has a credit card,
one of those, and does he pay it in full
every month. Does the 16% APR look set
to be reduced in line with interest rates and isn't
10.5% profit a bit steep?
The bus dropped us off, leading to
a frantic dash to the check in desk, this
immaculately designed building raped with security
barriers, they look temporary, in that way
that things do after they've been in place for
fice years.
Was running late to get out of work,
firing of a final salvo to Anorak. Why
is it always antagonistic and confrontational
Is it me? No, cos even when I'm not
there Tasty fires salvos, even when I don't
mention stuff, Tasty brings things up.
Maybe he has never stopped loving me.
It ain't healthy, this running through
my head.
"It might help if you asked The
Plimptons to write some good songs" quoth he.
"If they did, would you listen?" Untyped.
The chap sat next to me is getting
frustrated. "Fuck" he says,. The plane isn't due
to leave for another five minutes.
The stewardess with the mic is amusing.
Two lost passengers, are we sure we're
not them? Are we sure we're going to
Glasgow?
Friday - 21:37
The venue isn't open yet, The Beat Club
375 Sauchiehall Street, so I head to ra
Noodle Bar for ma dinner.
Somewhere behind me and to the left a
chap from my first year at university is having
food with his friends.
Since I stepped off the airport bus,
Central Station stop, I've been filled with
glee, I'm home and dry. The streets warm and
embracing, familiar and safe.
This one time I ate in here before a
Belle & Seb gig at the ABC, there was a
crowd of ten or so of us, bickering over eating in
or take away.
Saturday - 00:47
The Beat Club is dark and neon lit when I wander
in, through the murk I see Paul Smith
of Pin Up, and thence emerges Martin Smith
and in the distance Adam, friends. I spot
five or six people, Plimps and entourage. On
stage are some noisy shoegaze Oasis kids. If
they weren't too young I'd figure they were taking
the piss.
Text message from Robbie, he's round the
corner at The State, and seconds later, I'm there
too. Finton Stack, and a chap called Anders, the
name's a little familiar, but I've never seen
him before in my life.
The chaps are there sampling beers
uninterested in joining me at the Plimptons gig
probably awaiting the new album rather than
internecine gigging.
We chat, time passes and I return to
Pin Up Nights.
It was years ago, 1999 when I
first met John D McGonagle, one of the
founders of the Pin Up Nights franchise, him and a chap
called Graham. We'd been competing against
each other in the elections to be student
president at Strathclyde.
I didn't see John D at the gig, thing
slowly fall apart I guess.
Excitement buids before the Plimps take
to the stage. I recognise folk in the
crowd, the smiley foreign lass from
Sounds of Sweden, Chris, Dave and
Katie from the Just Joans, ancient
scenesters from long ago.
The place explodes when the Plimps
take to the stage.
They have the new album in their
minds, still raw, not recorded. The
band all psyched, Rowan smiling eyes
asparkle, Martin overcome by crazed animal spirits,
Cal the youngester fitting in neatly to the six-piece,
Adam twitching by the mic, on home turf, Neil
back to the audience sorting out levels on his
bass, Paul - eyeliner.
Whilst there are still the regular old favourites in the
set, Could I Be Loved and John Major, they
take the opportunity of a full band to play the
more complicated stuff from their 2004 debut
album and earlier demos, The Plimptons Rap
even gets an airing.
Tracks from the third album include Lonely
Old Man, who's MySpace references could date quickly
and Virgin on the Ridiculous, which sounds
terrifyingly like Elvis Costello, Paul Kelly's influence
in the song writing.
Most terrifying of the evening are the
people dancing, looks of glee on the audience's
faces isn't enough, there are mobs of
complete strangers dancing in front of the
stage, folk coming up and shaking Adam's
hand after the show.
What have they
gained since I left?
Text message from the girl, she's just
finished work, Robbie, Finton, and Anders
are there so I head off.
---
The next day, the weather's shite
as we head off to the farmer's market in
Partick, on a quest for duck eggs and
homemade sorbet.
Some further acquaintance from uni is
running one of the stalls, selling porridge oats,
my eyes glaze over as I try to recall
how I know him, but the moment passes.
Robbie and Finto are there,
four of us head to a bearby Polish Deli
for pickles and kabanos. In Glasgow its
still a novelty instead of the norm.
The weather's still crap as we sit
in The Three Judges. I leave myself at
the combined mercy of the others' expert
knowledge of fine beers and ales.
The rain is torrential with blobs of
snows, the girl's feet soaked, when we
call round at my old flat to pick up
mail. A good carrier bag full for
me to wade through an hour later at
the Bon Accord as we're served a
succession of Bloody Mary derived drinks.
The one with floaty nits of horseradish
is unexpectedly
pleasant, but
would be a
task to persuade
others to sample.
An indian
takeaway, the
film Chopper
with Eric
Bana and NCiIS
on the TV.
Its dark and wet out when we
stagger into The Cellers. Used to be the
Brunswick Cellers back in my day, now its still
cold and gloomy but utterly without soul.
Flatmate Alan and his wife Claire are here
for my birthday. They haven't seen us since
the wedding, two months ago, they
bring gifts. I melt in a gooey mess of
happiness, leaving Natalie and Alan to
do the talking. The Wolfknuckles soldier on,
Iain Thornton is still around, no one's
seen Teamie in months, the old club nights
are achanging, naked woman on fliers.
Bis still playing gigs. Working over
Christmas. Teamie appears, the
descent of the Winchester, change, change,
change.
Drinks are drunk and baby its time to
move on.
The weather's still crap as me and
Natalie find The Flying Duck, the entrance
is hidden, but inside its homely. We
strangely see Bis's Sci-Fi Steve fluttering
down the corridors like the fifth Doctor,
before we pay in and retrouve Robbie and
Finto.
The latest version of that crowd is here,
faces missing, far away, unexpected face
now here, like Big Duncan and Wake The
President, last see in London just days
before.
Robbie dragging me to the dancefloor for the Rutles.
Nat dragging me to the dancefloor for some other dancing
Me dragging Robbie to the dancefloor via Gav for Hectors
Natalie taking photies of the boys, looking cool
Fear / jealousy of Natalie and Finto chatting and flicking through my camera, then remembering faith and the phrase 'true blue'
Flashes of years gone by, similar folk dancing similarly
Somethings change, but not everything
Text message from the ex-wife, she'd just finished work and wanted to know where we were, battery on my phone failed before I could reply.
For a few seconds I thought it could be awkward were she with us.
Robbie mentioning some sad news about an ex- in London. Feelings of helpnessness "But I should do something"
More booze, more dancing.
Trying to get Ally to play Pipettes.
Trying to get Ally to put on more bands at the Winchester
Replying to Colin's post on Anorak offline.
Switching on lamps and eating cashew nuts, pilferred from the night before.
Dancing to Stone Roses.
Smiling at Finto and Nat dancing to Pulp. Did I really drag him out to the Winchester?
Did I have fun, damned right, didn't
even have to apply Mental Judo.
Next morning we stagger to the
bus station. A man dies of a heart attack
in Waterstones. I step onto the Megabus
and vanish.
Monday, 1 October 2007
Further descent
So I took my printer in to get serviced and my car got dinted.
Looks like I have to get a new printer too.
Damned frustrating. But hey ho.
I wonder why Humblebee and Crystalball have been kicked off Bowlii. Things aren't going well in the world.
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