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Issue 35 - September 1997

Scandals in Justice Special Edition

Dave Ford's lone fight against the Metropolitan Commissioner of Police is just one of the unreported 800 miscarriages of justice we estimate occur each year in the UK. Read about this and several others in this issue (And, of course, Lots, Lots More)

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Editor's Letter

Dear Readers...

This edition has come to you with more of a lick and a promise than usual. It has not exactly come out of thin air, but just about. It has been a while since the last publication. So much has changed. The death of Diane has changed the nation's entire concept of the monarchy. There has been an election; Portillo languishes in the country pondering on whether he should ever make a come-back; New Labour is welcome, but will need watching keenly, and our greatest living fan, Dr Julian Lewis, is now eyeing the shadow cabinet. I wish him well.

He will no doubt be pleasantly surprised to find we are not yet quite a corpse, although as I watched him gain his seat while I was in hospital almost a corpse, it was a close-run thing.

I have dedicated much of this edition to miscarriages of justice. They still go on almost routinely and if one is going to have a campaign, this one is sorely needed. Scandals in Justice and Paedophiles simply cannot get enough attention or publicity.

I don't know what the future may hold, but at time of writing there are enough well-wishers out there to keep us niggling away for the foreseeable future. As always, I must thank the hundreds of subscribers, mainly for your patience and generosity.

At time of writing I am facing a criminal charge of misusing a computer. It should be an interesting test case and I very much hope it is not dismissed. I may have to write the next edition on Brixton toilet paper and I've made Lord Longford promise he will not visit me.

Meanwhile, if I kick the bucket, please raise a glass. It's been a lot of fun.

Regards,

Regan

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Miscarriages

Ultimate Scenario for a Nightmare

When my friend Pinkie entertained Her Majesty in Wandsworth for some 18 months a few years back, he found he was the "only one in the nick who had actually committed a crime." Even though a very high proportion of residents were, of course, as guilty as hell, all of them claimed they "didn't do it". They were framed, or set up, or they were protecting someone else. Or they had received a most inadequate defence, full of flaws, which would eventually "prove" their innocence.

It is such a common bleat among prisoners, that it merely tends to create big yawns, not only outside nick, but inside as well. The assumption of the entire judiciary, and often of the public, is that most convicted prisoners are going to plead innocence, however guilty they were in reality. And there are, of course, miscarriages of justice the other way round.

A clever criminal who can "fix" crucial evidence, or tamper with a jury, or threaten witnesses, is quite capable of creating his very own malpractice. There is nothing at all new in that. Many hardened criminals. too, have only actually received sentences for a fraction of their crimes.

But close observers of our justice system are also very well aware that a proportion of people convicted of crimes and imprisoned should never have been so, for myriad reasons. A sloppy defence is top of the list. But recently it has been manifestly confirmed what many of us knew all along.

That the police are quite capable of fabricating evidence to suit them; that lawyers are capable of gross negligence in not putting forward an infallible defence which is actually open to them at the time; or that the accused, sometimes of low intelligence or even unable to speak English, get steam- rollered by a flawed system.

There is a situation in the UK whereby widespread and continuing miscarriages of justice continue almost by the day. They are all based not just on casual negligence but often get to the very heart of the infrastructure of our society. If a person is wrongly convicted it not only strikes at his or her personal liberty - serious enough by any standards - but at every last one of us. For, ultimately it is we who have created the system and we who must live or die by it.

Hitchcock's favourite "mystery gambit" was to allow the audience to know the full plot. In fact, the audience, were the ONLY people who knew the full plot and his heroes were always innocent, but being fitted up for a crime - and only we knew where it was coming from.

For example, North by Northwest which brought the goodies and the badies in full pursuit. Or Rear Window where everyone but us was convinced he was fabricating The Thirty Nine Steps was based on a similar plot in which the hero spent the whole story trying to both prove his own innocence and escape from those who thought he was guilty. These are all potential real life scenarios, but in real life there is seldom a happy ending. Only the hero knows he really didn't do it, and right to the very end no one else believes him. In the case of Hanratty, the finale was the ultimate end and resulted in the black cap and judicial murder.

The recent Bridgwater case illustrates the syndrome almost to perfection, but luckily it caught a taste of Hitchcock on the way and there might be a happy ending after all.

In this edition we are setting out to highlight some of the stories that did not reach the headlines. The story of Carol Hanson is one of the saddest we have ever come across and has every ingredient of the ultimate nightmare.

You know you didn't do it, but simply no one, including your own lawyers, believes you. In Carol's case she spent more than half her life in absolute despair and misery before she could take no more and took her own hopeless life.

Each of these cases is unique in their way and, apart from Carol Hanson, they are well known to the public. But in terms of miscarriages, all three are frightening examples of what could happen to any one of us if the system we have fostered and supported, often hysterically and ignorantly, continues unquestioned. In these three cases, even after all the headlines, a proper analysis of just what went into legally perverting the course of justice, makes very disturbing reading.

Yet we are now going into a society, ironically even more so under New Labour, where police activities are to be given substantially more wide-ranging powers. There will soon be greater powers of interception, such as legal telephone tapping, even of conversations between a client and his lawyer; new powers of arrest; the abolition of a proper caution; the naming in a community of any person convicted of a sex crime; "Zero Tolerance" and so on. Each of these is likely to gnaw away at justice, which is already deeply flawed as these cases so adequately illustrate.

Yet all, even to the cynic, is not lost. Since all of the three cases quoted began there have been many advances in technology, particularly in forensic science, which in future should be able to help both sides. DNA is singularly the most significant criminal yardstick to have emerged for it is so irrefutable. Blood no longer has to match by type alone.

You can prove beyond doubt that it does so. A semen test will prove a sex offence of any calibre quite concisely. A single hair will properly identify both the victim and the assailant. Hanratty could not have been found guilty had proper DNA tests existed during his ordeal.

The along came Electrostatic Detection Analysis (ESDA) which proved conclusively that the Bridgwater case was based on forged documents. Also in power now are taped police interviews and video taping is clearly on the cards. That certainly would have also been a serious blow to the Bridgwater Four.

Because of growing public disquiet about the whole spate of obvious miscarriages of justice, the political climate, even under the Tories, led to the Royal Commission on Criminal Justice which in turn successfully suggested the Criminal Cases Appeal Authority (CCAA), which in theory is an independent body tainted neither by politics, nor the established bar.

Forensic technology should lead to less suspect evidence. If evidence is still suspect, then it should lead to the CCAA.

But what can never be fully satisfied, even after any or all of the above has been exercised, is the crooked copper. The ambitious "acting" Inspector who has an axe to grind - or wants to seal his promotion. He will learn, as all crooks do, to corrupt even fail-safe evidence. He can still plant; he can still verbal; he can even create his own DNA tests if he is that determined. He can bully witnesses to make false statements, or to not appear, or he can simply destroy or ignore vital evidence he comes across merely because it does not conform to his own private theory.

There will never be a time when a miscarriage is not possible, because of human chicanery or extreme bad luck - or even through mischance or coincidence. All the cases in this file, which will continue as long as injustice in our courts survives, will show that at least sometimes justice may be seen to be done, however long it takes.

It is an accepted estimate that during any given year in the UK some 800 miscarriages of justice are perpetrated because of our present system. This is based not only on the statistics of Scallywag/Scandals, but all the legal watchdogs such as prison reform groups, Litigants in Person and so on. There are some 320 British groups linked one way or the other into monitoring the system. That is a lot of people who have run foul of it one way or the other. In the end it is only the spotlight of publicity - the opening of their cases to proper scrutiny - that gives any of them any vestige of hope.

That's why we must all keep at it.


This series of articles was commissioned by Scandals in Justice in 1997 to mark its 10th aniversary. The rest of the series, which includes features on the James Hanratty and Bridgewater Four cases, may be accessed from Simon Regan's guest page.

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Classic Miscarriages

Dave Ford and the Service Station Sting

Background

Sir Paul Condon the Metropolitan Commissioner of Police is, as you might guess, rather a busy man. When it comes to day to day police work, he remains very much in his ivory tower dictating policy, meeting the politicians and controlling the general well being of one of the largest, most complex and varied cities in the world. Yet a middle- aged former South London businessman called Dave Ford has now threatened his eyrie-existence and forced the police chief to take the lift to the ground floor and meet him in the rather dirty streets of his power base.

So far, the wily Sir Paul, backed by a formidable legal machine and half a dozen archaic laws which protect policemen under such circumstances, has managed to evade the confrontation, despite the fact that he has been subpoenaed to appear in Croydon County Court. As we went to press, another subpoena was on the way.

If Mr. Ford gets his long-desired day in court, then it will be a precedent of immense importance and it will send the law-makers scurrying to the drawing board to change the very structure of the liabilities of the force. It will mean that any person with an alleged complaint against the police may hold the Chief of Police personally responsible for any serious misdemeanour carried out by any member of his force.

This is a fairly new phenomenon in British law and was best illustrated recently in the Michael Foot -v- News International libel case in which lawyers acting for Foot subpoenaed Rupert Murdoch in his own ivory tower in New York and held him personally responsible for a decision one of his editors had made thousands of miles away in London. (To publish a wholly misleading story about the former Labour leader). For the moment, Rupert paid up and ran away. But it is a certainty that one of the issues on his informal agenda when he began flirting with Tony Blair, was a quick change in the libel laws.

The case against Condon is a point of law which in itself does not amount to a hill of beans. In normal circumstances it might have been resolved very quickly in or out of court, probably by police underlings. But David Ford goes out of his way to not operate in "normal circumstances" and I would imagine that by now, Sir Paul realises he has sat on a thorn which at first was a tiny pin prick he hardly noticed, but evolved slowly into the whole inflammation of his tender backside.

The real point of the action is that it will allow Dave Ford to re-open a whole can or worms which will reverberate right down from the ivory tower itself to the Bobbie on the beat in Nether Wallop. There are approximately seven serious charges he will have to answer, and probably a dozen more which will cause severe embarrassment. The action had been taken because, for twelve long years, Dave Ford has been grinding through the system, trying to get answers in a conventional manner about an apparently classic miscarriage of justice.

Each of the seven charges have been the subject of different complaints at different times. Despite this, none of the seven have ever been properly investigated or resolved. If all of them are even half-true, they collectively amount to police corruption, collusion, false evidence, incorrect procedure and the non-return of valuable goods. If Ford's evidence is to be believed (and after reading the million or so words in his well-worn dossier, I am convinced the police have a lot to answer for) the case involves a set-up sting by crooks who shared their booty with the police; the planting of incriminating evidence "to put the nails in the coffin; " making up false statements to frame at least four men (all of whom ended up in custody) and the mysterious sale of four stolen paintings which, actually, were never stolen in the first place.

The strands of this go through the very murky world of a covert homosexual ring based at a luxury country mansion; then through the equally seedy underworld of petty South London criminals, onto opulence and eventually they all lead to a car park. The central allegation is that the police found out at a fairly early stage just who had been involved in the original robbery but for reasons of their own did not arrest the robbers, preferring instead to set up a complicated sting to blame it on a set of people who had only become incidentally involved and were, at the very worst, petty bystanders.

The Robbery

Robert Mackenzie was a multi-millionaire who lived in some luxury at Fawns Manor, Bedford, Middlesex. He had surrounded himself with what he called "my little trinkets" which were in fact an Aladdin's Cave of artefacts, old masters, expensive porcelain, rare books, silver, miniatures and busts. The full list of that which was later alleged to have been stolen ran to fifty pieces and amounted to one of the most substantial art hauls of the century.

But McKenzie also liked to surround himself with other little playthings in the guise of young men with whom he enjoyed one-night frolics. He had a live-in lover called Colin Bishop, but either together or solo, many others were invited to the house for sex. Some of these visitors came from the same murky underworld that would later figure in this case. But two men were also regulars at these trysts - George Francis and James Barrymore, both friends of Bishop.

Bishop had been given many expensive gifts by McKenzie during the years 1976 and 1980, which included five valuable paintings including Man in a Red Coat.

In early 1981 Mackenzie died of natural causes and in his will he had bequeathed most of his belongings to his two sisters. The actual executor of the will, however, would be another former love, Derek Sherborne, who was the executor of the will with another unnamed man.

The terms of the will are not known to anyone but Derek Sherborne because the will never went into probate until 1994 and has never yet been executed - despite the fact that the will itself could provide vital testimony as to who exactly had an interest in the stolen goods. Also despite the fact that Ford has campaigned vigorously to have the details published.

Very mysteriously a few months after McKenzie died, armed robbers came to Fawns Manor and, after attacking but not injuring Sherborne, but putting his head in a plastic bag, they left with at least the fifty items displayed on the charge sheets. The actual details of the raid are somewhat vague. It was a gang, they were armed and threatening, it happened on the night of 21 September 1982, fifty items were missing, and so on. But the police acting at the time had very little to go on.

The investigation, they surmised, would have to run backwards. That is, they knew the robbers (in law there is a significant distinction between burglary and robbery), would, after a time to let things cool down, try and sell their goods, probably by placing them on the international art market. As such, of course, Interpol should have been alerted and they in turn almost certainly warned other forces in Europe and America. Curiously, however, the police investigating the case offered all the proceeds of the robbery back to Sherborne for the sum of £10,000 but intimated there would be no arrests. Therefor, Ford clearly contends, if the contents of the robbery were already in police hands, he could not have them in his possession.

It is here that we get into the fog because all police action into the actual robbery itself has not been released, and the case has never been solved. But suffice it to say that George Francis and James Barrymore did eventually try and sell the same five pictures on behalf of Colin Bishop. Meanwhile, also rather mysteriously, Fawns Manor was burnt to the ground and the plot sold to British Airways.

Also, you might think strangely, in trying to find a buyer for Bishop's paintings, Francis and Barrymore exported two of them to New York where they were lodged with Zwerling and Zwerling, notable Broadway lawyers. Irving Zwerling wrote to confirm their arrival on July 17, 1985 and asked for an affidavit from the "present owners" as to their legality. A Customs check was also made. The affidavit as to ownership, sworn in front of a lawyer, was also despatched almost by return post. Zwerlings, however, were unable to reach a satisfactory sale and sent them back to London. On the journey, of course, they had to pass through both US and British Customs all over again. It might be surmised by this, that these four pictures at least at that time were not on any "stolen property list".

If they were reported stolen, would Francis and Barrymore have run the risk of openly exporting them and subjecting them to rigorous controls? There is evidence to show that Mackenzie had actually given the paintings to Colin Bishop between 1976 and 1980. An affidavit confirming this exists, and so do the documents for export and import.

Either way, none of this appears to have occurred to the police and on 29 February 1983, some five months after the robbery, Sherborne (who had filed a complaint) received a letter from the Police Complaints Board confirming that a detective sergeant assigned to investigate the robbery had "failed to take proper steps to circulate details of the stolen property and neglected to make adequate inquiries about the possible suspect you had identified from a magazine photograph." The police themselves were admitting at a very early stage that their own investigation into the robbery had been sadly flawed. The Deputy Commissioner blamed this on "lack of experience" from a newly promoted officer and promised he and his direct superiors would be censured.

This has a special significance at the trial stage when the judge, while summing up, reminded the jury that a very serious robbery had taken place - "of that there is no doubt". The fact that a robbery may well have been fabricated was never brought to his attention. All this was a full three years before we come to the little drama at Heston Service Station where Dave Ford and two others were arrested.

The Sting

Unable to find a ready buyer abroad, Francis and Barrymore cast around closer to home. One of the people they contacted was Freddie Brazil, who was later charged with handling them. It was he who eventually contacted Ford who had various businesses, including a car hire firm and a carpet shop. At the time Ford also had a few bob in the bank and although he had a criminal record it was for various misdemeanours and he had never spent any time in prison. As far as Ford was concerned, from the very beginning, after seeing the Customs papers and the affidavit, the pictures were simply on the market.

Subsequently, Ford was approached by an acquaintance called Mark Hughes who said he had heard about the pictures and thought he knew of a buyer. Hughes was a petty opportunist and it is quite obvious from everything that came later, that at this stage he was acting as a police informer. He asked for a set of Polaroid pictures of four of the paintings in Ford's possession to "show to the potential buyer".

Ford had absolutely no qualms at all about producing these pictures and giving them to Hughes to show who he liked. It was hardly the act of a man who knew he was harbouring stolen property. Hughes quite obviously took these pictures to the police. Mysteriously, even though they had not so far appeared on any earlier stolen list, they suddenly did so now.

After a suitable time Hughes came back to tell Ford he had found someone who may be willing to pay between £125-150,000 for the pictures but he wanted to see them. The man, Hughes said, did not like coming into Central London and apparently resided near London airport. Ford agreed to take the pictures to the Heston Service Station half way between London Central and Heathrow.

He hired a car to do the job and a driver, one of the later defendants, Robert Rother who was at the time out of work. He was to be paid £50 for the day. Ford was coming out in his own car for a 3pm meeting. On the way out he saw Robert's brother Dennis and told him he was going out to meet his brother, why didn't he come along for the ride - a ride which was to subsequently cost him two years of his liberty. Robert and Hughes were already at Heston with the pictures when Ford arrived with Dennis.

The police had chosen Heston for the sting, of course, because it came into their Middlesex jurisdiction. After a preliminary chat, two of the men went into the service station for hamburgers and then re-joined the others. At that point dozens of policemen pounced, seemingly out of nowhere and, of course, Mark Hughes was able to make his escape - almost certainly picking up substantial informants pay at a later date. (On conviction).

The police may have been entitled at this stage to think it was a "fair cop." After all, they had apprehended three men with valuable "stolen" property in their possession. But just to make a copper-bottomed nab of it, a small bottle of Johnson's baby oil turned up mysteriously in the hired car and by some grotesque coincidence, this was filled with liquid ammonia and had been doctored for use.

This amounted in technical terms to the men being "armed." It directly flew in the face of all the other behaviour of the accused on that day. The three men had operated quite openly under instructions from what they now know was a paid nark and had gone there to act as middle men on the sale of some paintings. The ammonia would be crucial evidence in the later summing up of the judge and the sentences dished out. It was, of course, sent for forensic tests and confirmed that it was ammonia. But, strangely, no fingerprints were taken.

They were not taken because the police knew very well that the accused had not touched the bottle. While Ford and Robert did have criminal records of a fairly non-serious nature, they had never been convicted of anything that was even remotely violent. Ammonia just didn't fit their behaviour patterns. All three men strenuously denied knowing anything of the ammonia to the very end (and after). But to these three men and several others, this was only the beginning of the nightmare.

The Charges

There are two widely differing sets of opinions regarding what happened at Hounslow police station over the next seven days. The police version was to play a heavily significant role in the subsequent summing up by the trial judge. What is not in dispute by anyone is that none of the three men detained was allowed access to a solicitor during this period, and that none of the notes were signed. These would constitute the so-called confessions that the police were later to put forward as crucial evidence.

The men were all, naturally, interviewed at some length by various officers up to the rank of inspector. What the three men recall is that they protested vigorously that it was a frame-up, that they believed the pictures had not been stolen, and that they refused point blank to sign anything until they were allowed advice from a solicitor. Ford's solicitor heard about the arrest within two hours of the incident at Heston.

He tried very hard to gain access to his client, but was consistently refused. When he did see Ford, after exerting considerable pressure on New Scotland Yard, no statement was produced, and no custody records. Ford told him he had not said anything that may be attributed to him. The solicitor advised him just as strenuously not to sign anything. Therefore, statements attributed to him later in court, did not at this stage exist. Or were certainly not produced. And if they had been, their veracity would have been vigorously protested.

The case of Dennis Rother was particularly underhand. He had a completely clean record and had literally just been walking around when David Ford had spotted him and, with nothing else to do, he had gone along for the ride. Stolen paintings and baby bottles of ammonia were utterly new to him. He knew nothing about them.

He had nothing at all to gain by going to Heston. He was not involved with the sale, nor was he a driver of either of the two vehicles. He just happened to be the brother of Robert Rother who had been hired to drive the compromised vehicle.

Convinced he was lying, however, and unable to break his story, the police fabricated the fact that the other two had made full statements blaming him for everything. The carefully worded contemporaneous notes of the statement Dennis was said to have made, had him saying things like: "Okay, you've got me fair and square for handling, but I promise, I don't know anything about any ammonia."

The police, of course, played this tactic separately on all three men, telling each of them that the other two had put all the blame on him. The three had no contact with the outside world, nor with each other. At any time of the day or night, they would be brought from their cells for further questioning. As the week progressed and the police began to learn more about each of the men, the fabrications got more and more sophisticated and under this traumatic regime, the police desperately hoped one of the men would crack.

All three, however, knew very well that they were innocent and spotted what the police were up to. It didn't make sense to Ford that Dennis, for example, should admit to a serious crime which he (Ford) knew very well he had not committed. What the police were really trying to do, of course, was pin the robbery itself on them and with hindsight it might be rather surprising they didn't go the whole way and do so.

At the end of a week, however, the police had nothing to go on except their own fabricated and unsigned notes. These, however, proved enough to have the three men remanded in custody to await trial.

The Trial

The trial began on November 5th 1986 in front of Mr. Justice Palmer. Knowing that the only evidence which the police could put forward was the false and unsigned contemporaneous notes, the three defendants decided to take their right of not giving direct evidence. This might have been a good thing to do. It was up to the prosecution to prove beyond all reasonable doubt that the three men were guilty. It was not up to them to prove they did not do it. As it happens, with hindsight, it was a very risky thing to do and the gamble didn't pay off.

The jury was given the full prosecution side of events. Sure, the police officers were cross-examined and held to their story, but none of the men were able to refute the allegations under oath. They were relying on the fact that the judge would point out that contemporaneous notes were virtually useless as evidence. In fact, from reading the judge's directions and summing up it is quite clear that he felt they were as guilty as hell and he clearly saw them not going into the witness box as a sign that they feared cross- examination.

Ford himself was relying on the fact that his own solicitor would be able to give evidence that he had been unable to see his client, and when he did so, his client denied signing any statement at all and that he had charged from the very beginning that he had been seriously "verballed." This became the subject of a crucial submission (without jury) to the court which clearly shows the judges attitude at the time.

The solicitor, Mr. Dean, had been called for the following day and, when the defence had come to an end of its witnesses, at twenty to four, the defence lawyers asked either for an adjournment until the following morning, or that Mr. Dean would be able to be called during the prosecution's summing up. At first the judge was merely reluctant to grant this and asked the prosecution what they thought.

The prosecution, quite naturally, thought it was not a good idea and made objections. The judge then asked the defence to say what it was all about and the lawyer intimated that it would refer to the police mishandling of the original statements in Hounslow. This would throw serious doubt on the police evidence.

The prosecution quickly jumped up and argued that he thought this kind of evidence would be inadmissible. Without actually knowing what the solicitor might say, the judge agreed with the prosecution. In effect, he told the defence that the solicitor would not be heard. This was naturally a very serious blow to the defence and they argued their case strenuously. To no avail. He demanded that the jury to be brought back in.

On that simple ruling, the defence case fell to pieces. There was no one to give the defendant's side of the story or to make the accusation that the police had verballed the accused. In this ruling the judge made it very plain to both sides that if the accused had gone into the witness box, it would have been a very different matter.

If they had complaints against the police, they would have been able to state them, and be cross examined on them. He made it very clear, without actually saying so, that the accused only had themselves to blame if the jury was not in possession of the full story. Ford and the brothers' fate were sealed, there and then, for this subsequently came through clearly in the judges lengthy summing up.

Judge Palmer gave a meticulous account of the whole trial, repeating at very great length the entire police evidence and read out to the jury again all of the contemporaneous notes upon which the prosecution had exclusively based its case. He directed the jury not to take much notice about the fact that the accused were denied access to a solicitor, which is the almost divine right of any arrested person. "If the police do not allow a solicitor to see the arrested person, it is often because he might tip off others involved who the police are still looking for," he explained.

"This," he emphasised, "was a very serious crime. Very serious indeed." He did mention that the notes were contemporaneous, but did not remark that this was an unusual procedure. As the accused had decided not to make any kind of statement on the matter, then the jury must make up its own mind. He then read out the sentences in which the accused had said things like: "Obviously, I knew they were bent, but honestly, Guv, I didn't have nothing to do with the robbery."

"If you believe," said the judge, "that the accused said this, then you have no alternative but to find them guilty." There were, in the verballed version, a dozen or so carefully planted side remarks which clearly indicated that the accused knew the paintings were stolen.

The summing up, which lasted nearly three days and which covers 93 closely typed sheets of paper, was extremely clever, because it was biased only on omissions. There is not a single word which was actually misplaced enough for there to be any grounds for appeal. He constantly repeated that it was entirely a matter for the accused to opt not to give evidence, but that because of this, there was virtually no defence. Only he knew, because of the submission, that there might have been evidence that the statements may well have been questioned.

This had never been stated, not by him or anyone else. He clearly let it be known that as the notes had not been questioned, then they should be taken on merit. The jury, he said quite rightly, must only consider the facts before it. As such they soon brought back a unanimous verdict of guilty on all counts.

Condon

David Ford was sentenced to two years imprisonment and they kept him inside until the very last hour of the very last day. He had gone out of his way to be obstreperous throughout this time, and he got no time off for good behaviour. Knowing, however, that he was not guilty, he set about being even more obstreperous the moment the prison gates closed behind him.

During his incarceration at Hounslow the police had taken his keys from him and subsequently searched all his different premises, including his office. There they had taken all his files, documents, receipts and bookwork. Some of this related to the pictures and if they had been introduced as evidence would have shown beyond doubt that transactions had taken place which indicated that they were in Ford's hands quite legitimately. There was an affidavit concerning original ownership. Letters and receipts all concerning the "stolen" pictures.

In order to secure a conviction it is up to the prosecution to prove beyond doubt that the pictures had been stolen in the first place and that Ford and Co. knew they had been stolen. These documents proved the opposite. However they had come onto the market, Ford had the paperwork to show that he was fully entitled to believe that they were legitimate.

The prosecution very early on had given the court the assumption that they had been stolen, without introducing the evidence to prove it. The defence lawyers did not pick this up, but had it of been, it would have been a foolproof defence. In order to find means for an appeal and pardon, it was vital for Ford to get his documents back.

They had first been seized while Ford was still in Hounslow. They were not introduced into the custody book, nor introduced to court. While Ford was in prison he successfully arranged for them to be returned in the presence of his solicitor. In early 1987 he was given a one-day parole to receive them.

The policeman despatched to return them was a Det. Supt. Banks and they all met at the solicitor's office. While there Ford took the opportunity to illustrate to Banks the irrefutable evidence contained in the files and to make heavy complaints against the police conduct of the case.

Banks appeared surprised and angry at the allegations and asked if he could retain the documents so that he could make inquiries. He maintained that there would be a full investigation into a potential miscarriage and he needed the documents to prove his case. Ford obtained a proper receipt listing every item in the file and reluctantly allowed them out of his hands again.

They were handled under the Police Investigation Act. This had significance because they had been held previously under the Police Property Act, which compels police to keep all evidence for up to six years. The new act has no time limits. By pretending there was an ongoing police investigation (which has no time limit) they skilfully allowed the six-year limitation to pass and then claimed the documents had been lost or destroyed.

In effect, the police had held the documents under false pretences and then conveniently "disappeared" them.

When Ford in 1995 was beginning to really worry the police, their answer was to harass him further. They obtained a warrant to search his premises and took away several million pounds worth of bearer bonds. After months of fruitless investigation they let Ford know they were not going to prosecute. I.e. the bonds had not been stolen. But they only offered to return half of them.

Ford then issued proceedings against Sir Paul Condon and others, purely for the return of his bonds and vital documents. Despite receiving a subpoena to appear, however, Condon simply ignored it and is still in contempt of court. Another updated subpoena is on its way.

He and the others all know that, had they stood in the witness box, the full truth about his heinous scandal would come out at last.

PoliceScandal
Visit Dave Ford's website at http://www.scandals.org/daveford/ for the latest developments on this case.

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Dr. Adoko: What happens when the judiciary gangs up on its own

The Absolute Corruption of Absolute Power

To the casual observer, Dr Naphlim Akena Adoko at first appears to be a gentle, rather self-effacing man somewhat in the mould of Archbishop Desmond Tutu. But, like the good archbishop, their mild charm and righteousness hide an angry tenacity which it is unwise for the authorities or the establishment to ever unleash.

Dr. Adoko is a Ugandan-born, and, among many other things, he is a London-trained barrister, an author of several noted books, a former President of the Uganda Law Society and, as the British judiciary are quickly learning to their cost, formidable in litigation. You can also throw into his mixed bag of qualifications that he is an American-trained social anthropologist.

He was brought up in law to believe completely in the fairness, traditions and impartiality of the Bar. Clearly, from what he writes, one of his heroes was Lord Denning, and Dr. Adoko is fond of quoting the great lawyer to prove his case.

The issue itself is screamingly simple. Dr. Adoko is a barrister who wishes to practise as a solicitor. He works in a solicitor's office in London and wants to be on the "front- line" of his profession. His powerful knowledge of the law and his talents, he is sure, are far better serviced advising the litigants themselves, face to face. The British judicial establishment won't let him.

To change roles he must be exempted. If you are a white English barrister who has worked for a solicitor for two years, then the exemption is all but automatic. With Dr. Adoko it has been all but impossible.

This is the very nub of the matter.

But, as in all cases where miscarriages begin to clearly manifest themselves, then the webs of intrigue and covert activity underneath the veneer begin to create fog and muddle so that the very issues themselves become clouded. And this is a case where the ranks of the established judiciary have closed and then locked tight.

Very early on, Dr. Adoko suspected simple racial prejudice and he set out to prove it - by doing what he does best. Resorting to the law itself. This started simply enough, but the web got even wider. Curiously, as it got wider, it also got foggier until now the doctor is quite simply throwing the book at the lot of them.

You really do have to know your subject if you are willing and able to bring cases against the Law Society, the Bar, the Litigation Department of the Lord Chancellor's office and a High Court Judge. The case he is pleading is to the Court of Appeal against the decision of a judge to strike out his suit against the Law Society for damages of abuse of Office.

He has produced to the court no less than 30 cases of malpractice during the six years the official refusal has been going on.

The Law Society refused to let him see the official two- year exemption policy. This clearly allows any English barrister-in-law to become a solicitor after he has worked for an English firm of solicitors for two years. Not revealing the document, Dr Adoko claims vehemently, is fraudulent.

Virtually every English barrister who happened to be white, was granted the exemption almost automatically. Documents which would prove this and, under the whole spirit of English law cannot be protected if an allegation of abuse of power is made, remain steadfastly protected.

The doctor has produced a whole battery of precedence to illustrate his point. In fact, his point - in law - cannot be denied but continues to be so.

As Lord Denning himself put it: "A public body must not misuse its power And it is a misuse of power for it to act unlawfully or unjustly towards a private citizen where there is no overriding public interest to warrant it."

There are very few cases which exactly correspond to Dr. Adoko's. But anyone who is conversant with the 800 or so cases which end in an unsatisfactory conclusion on appeal in the UK each year will know that the process of law can grind to a halt very quickly when there is no where else to go.

It is all down to "leave to appeal" and if a judge decides there are no grounds for appeal, then that is often that. And it leaves the unsatisfied litigant no other recourse than to try unorthodox measures. From Scallywag's researches the "leave to appeal" legislation - often depending as it does on a single man's opinion - causes more disquiet to more people that anything else in common law.

In Dr. Adoko's case it appears that virtually the entire judiciaries have conspired to close the books. Dr. Adoko is spending what is left of his sanity desperately trying to keep them open.

Surely, it is significant when a man from their own ranks accuses them of injustice and fraud.

It is a unique case in that Dr Adoko is himself a learned advocate fighting his own adopted establishment. One for which when he first joined the profession he had the utmost respect. Yet, as a litigant in person, he is facing the same frustrating, often agonising rivers of glue as so many who have found themselves alone when trying to right an injustice. And not half as qualified to fight on as he clearly is.

If a man of Dr Adoko's obvious eloquence and expert knowledge of the law comes up against its brick walls, what chance have ordinary folk?

But let us consider the simple chronology of events.

In the fifty-eight years between 1931 when he was born and 1989 when he returned to London (as a refugee from the brutal regime of Idi Amin) to practise as a barrister, his CV is little short of spectacular. On his arrival in London he had immediately applied for exemption so that he could practise as a solicitor. He was informed he did not qualify automatically. In 1992 he joined a firm of solicitors and applied again. Despite an earlier recommendation from its own executive, he was turned down.

In 1993 he had become a valued member of his employer's legal team and he applied again, this time pointing out in some detail that he was amply qualified on all the criteria and that there was absolutely no legal impediment to refuse him. He was refused.

He appealed, citing breaches of regulations. He further charged negligence and abuse of power and he applied for a judicial review to decide the matter. The Law Society then informed him they had taken Counsel's advice and consequently they had decided to withdraw their decision.

That is, they were wrong and Dr Adoko was right. But the Law Society then began prevaricating and playing for time. They asked the two firms of solicitors who Adoko had been associated with to give written testimonials, which were quickly forthcoming.

The Society then began deliberately to mislead the Judicial Review by stating that the pass mark was 50%, whereas in reality it was 40% and Dr Adoko had achieved 43%. He was again refused.

In August 1994 went back to the Society with a fresh application after he had, through discovery, found out two positive areas of malpractice. They simply refused to listen and turned him down. Deciding that he had done everything possible along the proper paths, he decided to take everything to an Industrial Tribunal.

At this the Law Society actually admitted that under law Dr Adoko had been discriminated against. Amazingly, however, they still refused his application.

Despite further quite ardent applications, including expert opinions which upheld his claims, in 1995 the Society was still prevaricating and asked Dr Adoko to produce yet more "proof of knowledge." Adoko then complained to the bar with a simple allegation that the Law Society had acted criminally.

The Society then exempted Dr Adoko - at long last - but with a final sting to the tail, they deferred enrolment pending the outcome of the Bar's decision.

Eighteen months later, in June of this year, Dr Adoko decided to throw the book at the lot of them.

Anti-Sleaze Logo

Dr. A. Adoko is Managing Editor of Anti-Sleaze Magazine

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Carol Hanson

The saddest miscarriage we have ever come across

This sad story really starts in the summer of 1970 when a particularly ghastly murder captured the public imagination and led to a sensational trial. A young army tearaway and his soft-spoken wife were successfully charged with the brutal rape and murder of a sweet and innocent ten-year-old schoolgirl, Christine Beck. It was, on any level of imagination, a most horrendous crime, and it was deeply regretted by most people that the death penalty was not still in force. I have not been able to examine the full transcripts of the trial itself, but contemporary newspaper reports clearly indicate a "witch hunt" atmosphere in which the public wanted blood. There is no question that some forensic evidence linked Carol with her husband, but it was co-incidental, in the sense that it clearly had an alternative explanation, which, if examined in a different way, clearly indicated her innocence. This evidence was by no means conclusive and should have led automatically to the "Beyond Reasonable Doubt" defence.

A national "witch hunt" atmosphere in any major crime, can be a very dangerous thing because any defence of the crime, whatever the actual facts of the matter, can bring down the wrath of public opinion. The police bask in temporary glory; the Home Office sees a conviction as politically expedient and popular. The defence lawyers tended to be unsympathetic and the prosecution lawyers are quick to see the potential of a conviction to their careers. The modern equivalent of this syndrome may be the Myra Hindly and Rosemary West cases who, whether they were truly guilty or not, were convicted amidst a dangerous national atmosphere of hysteria. Like Hindley and West as well, poor Carol Hanson was told she would never be released. The all became "no-hopers". But, unlike Hindley and West, Hanson never had any at all fighting her corner.

After Hanson's death had been publicised sympathetically, Stephen Shaw of the Prison Reform Trust said: "We were simply not aware of this case. It is extremely rare for a woman to stay in prison for more than 20 years." Beverley Thompson of the National Association for the Care and Resettlement of Offenders, added: "It would appear that the system had closed against her. I believe that this clearly demonstrates the need for more clarity when people are sentenced to long periods. Sentences with no end in sight are very hard for any individuals to come to terms with."

The evidence against Michael Hanson was overwhelming and conclusive. Despite this, a fundamental mistake, Hanson insisted on pleading not guilty and against -their own, better judgement, the defence decided to go along with it. During the trial, however, Hanson had not only confessed to the crime to his own lawyers, but also insisted that his wife was completely innocent. It would have been only "proper" for the defence, top QC Leslie Boreham, to decline to continue with the not guilty plea. It is possible that, knowing the evidence was conclusive, Boreham had no further interest in his client. This action on its own - to ignore a crucial and definitive confession - was tantamount to perverting the course of justice. It was even greater misconduct to allow Carol Hanson to be convicted, knowing full well of his client's confession.

But sit on it he did. They all did.

In his obviously demented mind, Hanson, a serving private in the Royal Anglian Regiment, later explained that he had allowed his young wife to be convicted alongside him because he was scared she would be unfaithful to him if he went down on his own. Who knows the full extent of the psychotic state of a violent child rapist and murderer, but it was almost certainly neither logical nor rational. It was absolutely crucial that the defence should have demanded Hanson change his plea and allow his wife's defence lawyers to plead her case separately. Instead, they stood back on an obviously conclusive prosecution and allowed their client, and his wife, to be found guilty.

The judge, Mr. Justice Melford Stevenson - a notorious "hanging judge" of the period - was quite delighted with the verdict and relished the sentencing. Because of the national hysteria over the case he had no qualms at all about imposing life sentences on both of them, and then for good measure threw in that they must not be released for at least 20 years. This went somewhat towards placating public demands for blood and it pleased the Home Office and, as the lawyers packed away their briefs and went for a congratulatory drink, the Hanson's were carted off to prison.

Although this horrifying scenario is so far little more than an "ordinary" miscarriage of justice, it might, in purely legal terms, have been excusable on the grounds that judge and jury had not been appraised of all the facts. But surely, our system is designed to eventually rectify such mistakes? That is why there are appeal courts. But in Carol Hanson's case the nightmare was one from which she would never wake up. For another quarter of a century she would swim backwards through glue and never reach the light at the end of the tunnel. There must have been something in her; right to the end that gave her faith enough to hope she would one-day wake up.

The nightmare became most intense when Michael Hanson, "full of remorse" confessed first to the prison chaplain and then to his wife's lawyers, that she was completely innocent of the crime and he gave chapter and verse on his own involvement, insisting vehemently that it was his crime alone. Carol. A believing soul got all her hopes up when her lawyers asked for and were granted an appeal. On paper, this exonerated her fully and at the very least MUST have created doubts as to her guilt. The only proper course would have been to order a retrial in which Michael Hanson could have made his statement to a jury and been subject to cross- examination.

Incredibly, the appeal came up before John Justice Widgery, another of the last hanging judges, who listened to the confession and then studiously ignored it. Carol. He argued had been "unlucky" which you might consider as the judicial understatement of the century. It was no longer a matter of the facts of the case. It was a matter of law. Had her husband pleaded guilty she would have been entitled to a separate trial. She was "unlucky" in the sense that he had not. All her husband's evidence, both during and after the trial, had been "eccentric". "She was unlucky," he decreed. "But ill luck does not itself justify a conclusion that the verdict was unsafe." Frankly, "luck" shouldn't come into a legal argument one way or the other. If there is obviously fresh evidence, then that evidence should be properly aired and tested by judge and jury because it certainly has created at least a reasonable doubt.

That, in effect, was her last recourse to the courts. In real terms, the system threw away the keys and Carol Hanson was incarcerated for life. What added a huge poignancy to this sorry saga, was that Carol patiently bided her time. She was a model prisoner. Soft-spoken and congenial, popular with her fellow inmates which, with a child rapist and murderer is very rare. She certainly protested her innocence to anyone who might listen, but unfortunately, absolutely no one did. She never moaned, or asked again to see a lawyer, and nor did she come to the attention of any of the prison reform groups, or anyone else who may have taken up her case. Still amazingly faithful to the judicial system she waited the full twenty years of her sentence before applying for parole. She was confident that she would at last wake up.

Somewhere between her conviction in 1970 and her death in 1997, a Home Secretary, without informing her, and presently unknown, decreed that Carl Hanson, and a handful of others, should be selected as being guilty of crimes of which they should never leave prison. Her applications for parole merely got denied without explanation. There was no one around to explain why. She had no idea of this decree until, in April 28th of this year, Michael Howard, in one of his last judgements as Home Secretary, made it clear that "for some prisoners, a life sentence would be exactly what it was - for life."

Can any of us who have never been forced to face the ultimate trauma even imagine Carol Hanson's state of mind when it dawned on her fully that she would never, ever see freedom? Knowing fully, as she did, that she was innocent, and knowing there was no where else to turn, and finally, after a quarter of a century of inborn hope, she would never get to that light.

Maybe it was at this moment that the nightmare actually ended. She just gave up swimming and allowed herself to wallow in the glue. At 10.55 am on the 2nd May l997 the senior medical officers at Cookham Wood jail in Kent pronounced Carol Hanson free at last. She was dead. He reported that there were no suspicious circumstances and that she had died of natural causes. Immediately, however, fellow inmates called the newspapers to suggest that they knew she had taken her own life. We'll probably never know.

The savage irony of this unhappy conclusion is that after one of the most sensational murder trials of the century, Carol Hanson had descended into complete obscurity. She became the categorical forgotten prisoner. Until she died. Then, quite suddenly, almost before her poor corpse was quite cold, the pundits rose up to tell her agonising story.

It is, of course, just a too little late for that.

But is it too late for the judiciary to examine itself in the light of recent cases, including Carol Hanson, in which miscarriages from a flawed system have shocked the nation and created a widespread lack of confidence in how our law works in practise? Perhaps it is something the new government, if they really wish to introduce a wind of change, may like to address forthwith.

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Why Jo Hare Is Dying For Justice

In May of this year a forty-year-old former exemplary business woman and mother of three was arrested and placed in police cells for seventeen hours before appearing at Bournemouth Magistrates Office where she pleaded guilty to criminal damage. Despite the fact that she promised she would immediately re-offend, she was given an unconditional discharge.

Before the court that day, the magistrates faced a rather extraordinary woman and a most bizarre set of circumstances. She had already been seriously weakened by a sustained hunger strike and her own refusal to continue taking medication for a thyroid deficiency and asthma.

In fact she had let everyone know rather loudly that she was either going to get justice done - or literally die in the process.

Shoppers in the busy Poole, Dorset, shopping centre had got very used to seeing this lady, Jo Hare, day after day handing out the most libellous leaflets and statements concerning a wide range of local solicitors and judges. Several of the solicitors named in these tracts had got used to having to wipe black paint from their premises after she had daubed them overnight.

What possibly could be such a truly great travesty of justice that it was worth the indignity and humiliation of this mother-of-three being manhandled into a police cell? What magnitude of miscarriage could warrant one's own death?

Was this woman obsessively insane, or was she fighting a lone war against what she could prove beyond doubt was a serious and gross breach of the law, or at least gross negligence, which had continued to be covered up?

One day it is hoped, a jury may decide. Meanwhile Jo Hare weakens by the day as her hunger strike continues.

So, what brought about this bizarre state of affairs?

As is so often the case with the people who end up facing the ugly face of the judiciary, it all started simply enough.

In 1987 - ten long years ago - Jo's brother Thomas King sold her a lock-up fast food shop. On her part the transaction was conducted by local solicitor Ian Cambell. At first all seemed well - until at least after the purchase which had been undertaken in good faith, the local council began putting all sorts of restrictions on the premises. So did the fire department.

Then it was discovered that Campbell had not in fact done a proper search on the premises and the property, in law, simply did not exist. Her brother had not owned it to sell. Consequently, she did not own it either. But later, when Jo tried to hold Campbell responsible for this serious misconduct, he wrote saying the original conveyance papers had, curiously, "gone missing".

The list of misdoings over the past seven years became overloaded as she stumbled around in the law trying to get some retribution. Solicitor after solicitor advised her there might well be a case, but they would not represent her unless she dropped the central charge of incompetence against Campbell.

If she had taken their advice and sworn that Campbell had indeed done a proper search, then she would have quite simply been committing perjury, which she was certainly not prepared to do.

She began to realise there was indeed a local conspiracy between local solicitors to save Campbell's bacon and, of course, in law, Jo Hare did not help her case by consistently breaking it to try desperately to publicise the scandal.

Her visit to the police cells was when she had reached the end of her tether. Her husband had successfully taken custody of her children. She had virtually gone bankrupt trying to fight her case, she was weakening physically by the day and by the time she contemplated the depressing tiles of that lonely police cell, there was nowhere else to turn.

All Jo Hare has ever asked for is a fair hearing. She fully believes that if she is properly represented, she has the overwhelming documentary proof of negligence on the part of Campbell and others.

If Campbell can prove irrefutably that he did a proper search on the premises and that there was no case of negligence to answer, then that would presumably be an end to the matter. If he is unable to do so, then all the papers in this sorry saga should be sent forthwith to the Law Society.

The trouble is that if solicitors continue to consistently refuse to make official complaints against one of their own, then she will be denied a fair trial until she is dead.

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New Labour

Squeaky Clean Blues - One Month Old

As the recent election made Scallywag virtually redundant for a few years - although we still have the odd old score to settle - I have been watching New Labour desperately trying to fault them. I don't mean the two-bit little scandals that are inevitable when little scheming ex-councillors suddenly find themselves in power. That would be too easy. No, I mean genuine, copper-bottomed gripes. As Scallywag has a mean mind, this was not too difficult the more the first few days grew into the first few months. So I have listed my gripes so far (this is a list that can be added to for the next five years). They include:

Squeaky Cleanliness. So far, Blah Blahs sycophants have enjoyed a good odour, but they don't all smell like roses. His top notch insiders in No. 10 smell of Detol and are fast killing all known germs. First thing in the morning, this smell can be quite refreshing, but it gets stale very quickly and by lunchtime it can be offensive and you need a lot of fresh, clean, cold water to wash it all down. A few cold showers may do the trick. One germ they have not destroyed however is:

Jack Straw.An arrogant, cock-sure, self-satisfied and smug little upstart who pretends he never masturbated over Maggie Thatcher. In reality he is the type to have secret fantasies by keeping doctored pictures of her in the top of locked desk draw. He used to keep a blue-rinse wig in his garden shed, but they took the shed away to make way for a security HQ at his Country Seat. Mark my words, Blah Blah, when the knife in the back comes out it will be the secret stalker taking vengeance for his beloved Maggie.

Glaswegian Mafia: After all our main Sport's commentaries including cricket - have been taken over by these whinging wankers, with their sing-song, unintelligible ramblings, they are now playing the bagpipes and tossing their cabers in the very shadows of Big Ben. On the one hand these funny little men who run around in skirts showing their stringy bottoms to rugby players, are promoting self- rule for their uninhabitable and hostile homeland, on the next they are down here taking over ours. While Blah Blah sits plotting with Michael Mendelson on just where to place his throne, this motley crew of Celtic morons are quickly bringing in reinforcements for a Scottish take-over. Hard luck chaps, Blah Blah has lined up a formidable defence - women. They are now everywhere to be found in the halls of the palace, hooting like sirens and ready for battle. Good move, Tony. Keep the women and the Scots at it for long enough and we might get rid of both.

Thatcher: Blah Blah has wilfully taken away one of life's greatest pleasures: a daily neurotic scream about Margaret Thatcher. He's even trying to get her on board, which shows just how oddly perverse he really is. You just can't trust a man who willingly allows The Thatch within a crowbar's length of Downing Street. Keep it up, mate, and get me off the unemployed lists.

Smoking: I don't at all mind the Blahrites being all goody-goody, as long as they don't expect me to be. I intend to be as badly behaved and anti-social as I ever was under The Thatch, which is saying something. First of all, they want to ban smoking from just about everywhere, especially anywhere in Westminster. This is dangerously discriminatory and must be watched. Smoking today, drinking and carousing tomorrow. Being censorial with yourselves is one thing - cleaning up the nation is another.

Politeness and Informality: I understand that Blah Blah is going to introduce politeness into the school curriculum. Not a bad idea, as long as it is kept to the classrooms. It would be far more useful to ban bores. My New Year's resolution this year was never to tolerate another bore. Consequently, if someone insists on boring me, I say, "I am sorry, old boy, you are boring me to death. Will you please shut up or go away?" Under the new regime, it would I who would be in the wrong on such an encounter, and that is intolerable. As to the informality, I don't mind you lot calling each other Tony and John, but I shall continue to insist on being addressed as "Mister Scallywag" by everyone younger than I. This is a very considerable proportion of the population. Anyone older than me should address me simply as "young sir." As to clothes, you are depriving a vast majority of your voters of a great deal of pleasure in this wholly scurrilous move to ban penguin costumes at official functions. What are we to do if we are deprived of watching the wannabe somebody's from making complete arses of themselves by dressing up as Arctic animals? It really is mean of you.

Galaxy Man: I have decided to protest about this ghastly phenomenon by peeing on any and every Galaxy motor car I come across. I did so once on every Gannex mackintosh I ever saw, and it did the trick. Gannex's are now as rare as fox furs. Just as it should be. I know you want to be a family man of the people, and good luck to you, but if you were really genuine about this you wouldn't purport to be a spaceman. If you insist, then I'm told Spielberg would jump at the chance of getting the Ambassadorship in Washington, and you could really re-live your fantasies. Meanwhile, all you are doing is increasing the petrol fumes by driving such a large car.

Question Time: Don't give it up, give it to the Glaswegians and the women. The other side would soon get far too bored to even attend so you could abolish it altogether. Meanwhile, all you've accomplished is to turn it into a sycophantic pantomime and denied us the pleasure of knowing whether you are capable of squirming or not. No good politician can hold his head up if he has not learnt how to squirm.

I hope that is enough to be getting on with. (Watch this space).

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Scallywag Diary

Mohamed and Max

Mohamed Al Fayad and Max Clifford teamed up in an unholy alliance to give the remnants of the last government a hard time. They collectively had the coffin in front of them and more than a few final nails to bang in. The two of them are rogues in their way and sometimes border on deviousness, but neither are evil like the people they attack. I like both of them for different reasons. Both at some stage have backed Scallywag, either with influence or cash, and obviously this may sway my judgement somewhat. But they appeared to have done so for absolutely the right reasons and never asked for anything back.

They just saw us being subjected to heavy pressure from the establishment and decided we needed backing and help. Secondly, Fayad had also been subject to the most incredible dirty tricks from Tiny Rowland and was advised by everyone he met that he simply had to employ the same tactics. Rowland's face fitted, Fayad's didn't, so while Tinny Tiny could count on the old boy's network, poor old Mohammed had to buy it. And there was a greedy little arsehole called Ian Greer ready and waiting to take his cash and then run out on him when the time was right. But the tricks Tinny got up to were dishonest, crooked, devious, dangerous and immoral. Because he met the right people in the club, he got away with it. Mohammed got caught at it and they all threw the book at him - and then fled as a cow's tail gets rid of the flies trying to get up it's arse. At least as quick as rats deserting a sinking ship.

Clifford, on the other hand, is a very shrewd publicist who knows his subjects intimately and his targets even more so. I admire him for his honesty in saying he often made things up. So do they all. They verbal people, which Max never actually does; they sport clearly misleading headlines (Kelvin McKenzie was the worst in history); they bully people into making statements they do not mean; or, as in the recent case of Scallywag versus Portillo, they sneak around offering "help" and then swiftly stitch you up. Clifford never does anything of this. It is just simply much easier to make up his own headline and then put a known name under it.

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Linguistics

It's all in the words

I first had an inkling towards linguistics - the austere study of languages not necessarily the speaking of them - when Naom Chompski (who rates the longest ever entry in Who's Who - six pages) began writing long and rather heady articles for Scallywag. After a brief flirtation he agreed to submit pieces to us for publication in the UK. We were flattered by this, as Chompski is regarded as a foremost scholar and intellectual, not just in his field. The articles were indeed brilliant, at least I think so for they were so achingly dull as to render them unintelligible. At any rate no one else in the world had accepted them - even the linguistic papers. He had considered this to be censorship on a grand scale and believed the entire scientific establishment had ganged up against him. However, we did have some fun with W H Smith who virtually hold the distribution monopoly in the UK and who steadfastly refused to come near us on the grounds of "trash content". We waved pages and pages of Chompski at them and at one stage got them spluttering back to the boardroom for a rethink. I, however, later got into a short correspondence with Chompski where he was more erudite and consequently very entertaining.

I took on linguistics more seriously when looking closely at the Andalucian gypsies for a book I planned to do with a deep flamenco slant. I read up all the available literature, which is very little. There is much more on the gypsies of Central Europe, but considering there are at least ten million accounted for gypsies in the world, and probably at least as much unaccounted for, there is a positive dearth of reliable historical information. The few historians who have studied them admit they don't really know where they came from, or how they started on their nomadic roaming. For it is clear they are of one central ethnic group, indicating they came from one tribe in Asia.

The first proper record dates back to 600 AD but most of the other contemporary mentions are legendary rather than factual. Virtually the only reliable way of tracing their ancestry is through the common Rom language, shared by them all wherever they were born. Often dismissed as patois, and rarely written down, Rom has less than 1000 words, most of them meaning at least six different things and only distinguishable by context. The whole history of gypsies is contained in their language and the most words used are Urdu- based, leading historians to believe they originated in the Punjab. There are several Persian words, some Arabic, Turkish, but only a few European, and some that have no background at all. They are of purely Rom extraction. This sort of thing, when you begin to get into it, can start gripping you and I dream of the day when I can sit on my porch in Alora and chew the fat with my neighbours in pure Rom. It is, however, a patois that they break into when they want to speak among themselves, especially if the local Guardia are anywhere around. They will probably think I am spying on them and give me a wide berth.

I now note that linguists have broken one of the great mysteries - how to translate Etruscan. Which has so far, over the centuries, defied all attempts to decipher. One bright spark has now found that another very baffling language - that of the Basques in the Pyrenes - is very similar. Enough to translate Etruscan into Basque and then into Spanish. "Last Great Mysteries" are any scholar's dream so linguists everywhere are drooling at the mouth.

On a lighter note a top French linguist has stunned the academic world by publishing a dictionary of "rap-slang" introduced into the sacred French language by teenagers listening to rap songs. The French who traditionally wrap their language in tissue paper have been deeply shocked to be told that boobs are now known as "airbags". If their good Sorbonne Professor can't get his work published because of humbug and censorship, he will find a ready publisher in Scallywag.

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The Monstrous Regiment

The only column in the world dedicated to misogyny

By Jolly Roger

Two fascinating recent surveys have pinpointed with devastating accuracy, how far us poor, long-suffering, men are now facing unlimited peril. Firstly, British women are now turning away from sex in droves - at least, with men. This might have been a blessing in disguise. For too long they have dominated us by flashing their fannies and seducing us into abject submission. Now they are telling us they can even have babies - all female, of course - without a penis coming near them. And then, naturally, they will clone each other until the "Mistress Race" completely rules the world. They always have over-lorded the universe, but hitherto with just a hint of decorum. They at least let us believe we had a minor say in the matter. If some 30% of eligible females are now turning to celibacy, then it stands to reason that 30% of men are being denied their just rights. It is only a matter of time before the harridans refuse to cook or wash up, or even look after their brats unless the little bastard has been cloned.

Now a second survey has shown that gangs of vociferous women are roaming middle-class areas like Maida Vale terrorising groups of hapless and innocent males. So, obviously the revolution has turned from mere "political correctness" (a fabricated and illogical nonsense and American disease at the best of times) and actually taken up arms to terrify us further.

It was always on the cards that if women gave up sex, the only real thing which kept them in any order, they would soon run riot and simply take over.

We can't rely on parliament to deal with this matter because so many of them are faggots and don't want sex with women in the first place. Well, at last they may have a valid point. People like Ian Greer should go for a sex change and then clone themselves so that at least a few of the male gender will survive. It is by no means an attractive idea but extreme measures are called for.

Anyway, I have decided to try and live with the situation by hiring my manhood out as a surrogate father. If you think about it, it makes good sense. I may go on having babies without the pure heartache and nuisance of going through the entire rigmarole and expense of seduction. I just pass them a test tube containing sperm, and they pass me a brown envelope full of money. I accept that a test tube can't do the ironing, but I might well earn enough to send all my shirts to the cleaners.

Not even Jolly Roger agrees with the habit in Afghanistan and other extremist Muslim areas, that women should be flogged for showing their little finger in public. It is of course a quite monstrous remedy to female excesses and is far too extremist. But I would like to see some of the harridans in New York, especially those hell-bent on changing the history and literature of the world to suit their own frustrated ends (which comes from giving up sex, of course), take a little visit to those countries - if only to find out for themselves just how very, very tolerant we Western males really are. We should naturally allow them to flaunt themselves and never submit them to a public flogging in Times or Trafalgar Squares. Far too melodramatic. Instead, strictly in the privacy of their own homes, they should be merely subjected to a jolly good spanking.

Imagine the all-male "People's Court": "You have been found guilty of the following counts: (i) Insisting on reading your children "Politically Correct Fairy Tales" in preference to Grimm and Enid Blyton. (ii) Refusing to dance naked in front of your husband after he had done 12 hours overtime to take the family on holiday. (iii) Demanding that you be allowed to have an affair with a cloned lesbian. (iv) Insisting that God is a woman against all known logic. (v) Interrupting your husband's darts match in the local and humiliating him by demanding publicly he returns home to do the washing up. For each of these most serious misdemeanours you are sentenced to a minimum one minute across his knee." That would soon put things in order again.

Jolly Roger has such a consuming hatred of the so-called fair sex, probably being the last of the true misogynists, that he hates to admit a grudging admiration for the Spice Girls. He does so because they break every rule of PC by flaunting themselves sexually in every conceivable way and are not only proud of it, but make a lot of money doing so. Apparently, their most devoted fans are girls who see them as role models. This must have the ardent PC's tearing their hair out. Anything that does that is all right by me. Then they had to ruin it all by calling themselves "Girl Power".

I note that all five winners of this year's "prestigious" Turner Prize are women. On its own that may not be an oddity, but there are no paintings or sculptures involved which is decidedly an oddity. One entry was a woman who had created a video of herself dancing without music in a supermarket mall non-stop for twenty minutes. From what I could see of the snatches of the film they showed on television, the only merit or significance of the video was that streams of shoppers walked by and simply ignored her. I shall have to send her a test tube.

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Paedophiles - The Manhunt is on

My files on paedophiles are second to none. I have pursued the subject for two decades now and am proud of it. Like most decent people, I abhor a child abuser and some of the tales I have heard make my skin crawl. I truly believe it would be a lot more humane if a persistent abuser was chemically castrated - humane to those abused, and to the abuser. A paedophile is a strange, sick animal who operates on a different mental and moral plane to the rest of us. In this way he often can't help it. And the very nature of paedophilia keeps him locked in a secret, clandestine, guilty and sordid world in which I am convinced many of them remain miserably trapped.

If, however, we are not to abuse justice, then the very least we should ensure is that any man who is clinically neutered should at least be allowed to leave a sperm bank in the unlikely event of him ever reforming and wishing to marry.

But there is something else which this clouded, miserable world has turned up recently which should worry anyone who is concerned about justice. Recently, a television documentary focused on a community of women in a northern town who had become paedophile vigilantes. They took it upon themselves to bully the names of any convicted paedophile from the local authority and then to hound him.

This included trying to break down his door, putting excrement and lighted papers through his letterbox, following him, chanting like maniacs, when he ever went shopping, whistling, hooting, screaming abuse whenever he put his nose out of the door and obviously, sooner or later, running him out of town.

As so often happens, this kind of behaviour originated in America, where many communities have such vigilante groups who are respected and backed by their local authorities and the police. There and now here, it is law for a convicted paedophile to register with the local police who in many cases give warnings to any institute, like schools, that may be vulnerable.

What is not fully released to these dangerous groups is the circumstances of the conviction and if you study paedophilia, there can be many degrees. It can range from the most grotesque, as personified by the Wests in which children are tortured and then murdered for sexual gratification. The second strata is sadistic abuse coupled with child rape. But this can go all the way down the line to an "uncle" who may kiss and fondle a child in his care, which, unpalatable though it may be, is unlikely to cause lingering harm. In this last category, there have in my opinion been many cases that were right on the borderline and could have gone either way. Coronation Street's Len Fairclough, for example, was prosecuted after attending a swimming pool where he larked about with some children.

An attendant charged that while lifting the little girls up to let them dive off his shoulder, he allowed his hands to wander between their legs. In the event he got off, but he never appeared in the Street again and in his own community there were always lingering doubts.

Recently, also, Boots chemist called in the police when they processed some film where the parents had taken pictures of their young children in the bath. Something which many, many families, including mine, have done quite innocently over the years for the family album. If either of these cases had resulted in successful prosecutions, then both would have been described as child abuse and each would have had to register themselves for ever more in what ever community they found themselves in.

If they were then hounded out of town by this posse of harridans, then I claim it would have been manifestly not in the interests of justice.

What I am saying is that no law should ever been taken into the hands of groups of ignorant people who are not aware of all the facts, however high the emotions might run. Or, in particular if the emotions do run high. Lynching is the most despicable form of miscarriage of justice. In any civilisation of the most rudimentary merit, justice must be finite, ordered and answerable.

But something else, even more serious, is now filtering to the UK from various communities in the States. It has already caught on in seventeen states and it causes me great concern. Satisfied with their vigilante lynching parties on paedophiles, the same groups are now including anyone convicted of any sex crime. And in most of these states, like paedophiles, felons now have to register with the local police.

To make matters more controversial in the UK it is being seriously mooted that a rape case does now not have to be fully corroborated. That is, a court is obliged to take the word of a rape victim without anything tangible to back it up. It is also being mooted that a man charged with rape may not defend himself by cross-examining his witness, or allow his defence counsel to do so if the judge decrees that it will further upset the witness. The idea behind this is, of course, admirable in essence.

It is designed to protect a victim from being verbally raped all over again and having to live though the terrible trauma in an open court. I have a great natural sympathy with this. I have interviewed many an abused child who, when they grew up, were persuaded by their partners to bring charges. Every last one of them said they wished they hadn't because the defence rested on trying to make out they were themselves the guilty party - i.e. that they had provoked abuse. But Justice is surely foremost?

In the future it may be possible for a disgruntled, or a scorned woman, to bring a charge of rape which cannot be properly substantiated and on which she will not be properly cross-examined, and if the man is found guilty he must register himself as a rapist for the rest of his life in any community he finds himself. This is intolerable to any vestige of fair play.

If one takes the recent case of socialist millionaire Owen Oyston, for example. Some five years after the alleged rapes were said to have taken place, police contacted dozens of girls in the North and Midlands and found five who appeared to remember being raped by Oyston (see many Scallywags). The case of four of the girls fell to pieces very quickly, two of them at the preliminary hearing. There was no corroborating evidence at all, especially, after all that time, any medical tests.

A girl who had been on the game and who was a dedicated junkie found Oyston guilty on one charge. She stood to make several thousand pounds in compensation if Oyston was found guilty. In court she dressed like a schoolgirl and pretended to break down, causing two members of the jury to cry. The judge duly noted this and sent Oyston down for seven years.

I truly believe that no actual rapes took place and that Oyston was the victim of a political campaign. At the very least, the conviction was "iffy". If one supposes there was a reasonable doubt, then to further convict this man to a lifetime of victimisation would be grossly unfair.

However high feelings may run and however emotive this whole subject may become, we must all keep it in a proper perspective and make sure justice prevails.

Meanwhile, in North Wales, the judicial investigation into paedeophily in children's homes, drags on - almost completely unreported in the national press. The inquiry is eight months old and only about half way through. Day after day, streams of formerly abused youths file through the court giving their evidence. Every day a battery of policemen, lawyers, and defence witnesses try and break them down. Sir Ronald Waterhouse, the chairman of the tribunal, patiently listens to it all.

When the lawyers for convicted abuser Peter Hawarth, tried to suggest that the witnesses were merely lying, Waterhouse observed somewhat dryly: "I find it impossible to believe that 66 boys from every walk of life and who were at Bryn Estyn at varying times, should suddenly come out of the blue to tell lies on oath that are all remarkably similar."

The trouble is - and it is a fair one - that apart from those who have already been convicted, no names may be reported at this stage. It will be up to Waterhouse to make his reccomendations which will undoubtedly go to the Criminal Prosecution Service. I fear that if prosecutions are recciomended, then the guilty will be picked off peace meal and, as with so many paedophile trials, clever lawyers will exploit the vulnerability of the victim.

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Dorset Hypocrisy

The Prison Ship Fiasco

The sheer hypocrisy of the good folk of Weymouth and Portland, a sort of annex of Dorset, and particularly their self righteous council over the siting of a American prison ship in the harbour, quite astounds me. It is an old hunting ground of mine, (with no less that 26 watering holes around the attractive harbour, it would be). They have got up in arms about "ugly sites" and possible dangers from prisoners.

Portland is incredibly one of Britain's truly greatest wildlife spots - the quarries ensured that development was not feasible and the pits degenerated into neglected holes. As they were neglected the flora and fauna poured in and remained unmolested. All wildlife needs to prosper is a lack of humans. But absolutely no one down there, with the exception of a few government scientists from Furzbrook, ever gave a damn and the council always fought to cover the whole isle in concrete and build holiday homes.

The council itself built two of Britain's greatest architectural monstrosities on the two most important sites in the picturesque working Georgian harbour side. One was the hideous Pavilion and the other was the council building itself which resembles a Russian prison block, and is treated as such by its long-suffering staff. The talk of "eyesores" down there is particularly ridiculous.

Not only that, the council allowed Latvian factory ships to park themselves right in the middle of the bay. These are a dozen gaunt, run down vessels which accept any kind of fish from any passing fishing trawler and churn them into meal and fertiliser. All of them are in full view of every seafront boarding house.

Thirdly, Portland for centuries has sustained the Royal Navy and this has turned many parts of the island into concrete jungles, including a significant area of the Bill itself. No one ever gave a shit about Portland, with the exception of Sir Christopher Wren who loved the stone and built St Paul's Cathedral from it. St Paul's represents at least three of the significant holes on the way to the Bill.

It has Verne prison, from which inmates regularly abscond, and a huge youth detention centre packed with the most violent teenagers who also go on the hop from time to time. A new "low danger" prison in the area. Sheer hypocrisy.

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Pamplona

A Desperate Scallywag Appeal to all American Universities

Scallywag appeals to all US universities to officially place the Fiesta of San Fermin in Pamplona, northern Spain out of bounds to all their students on the grounds that they are seriously destroying probably the world's greatest fiesta.

I have recently returned from Pamplona where I enjoyed my fortieth anniversary of San Fermin but I shall not go again purely on the grounds that your students have ruined the Pamplona that I knew so well. Many people go to Pamplona for myriad reasons. Some go to run with the bulls, which is a most serious business. Others go for the bullfights there. Pamplona is a rich town that can afford the greatest fighters of the day, and the very best bulls. Some people go exclusively to drink and it is indeed a drinker's paradise.

Very few people who take Pamplona seriously go to pay homage to Hemingway who they consider was the first American to abuse the town. He went in the twenties with a small party of five or six, and was obnoxious to almost everyone. Now the Americans, nearly all whippersnappers just out of their nappies, number fifty or sixty thousand, and they are just as obnoxious, although to be more obnoxious than Hemingway is very difficult.

Although Death in the Afternoon is a good starting point for any budding aficionado it is by no means definitive on the subject, and much of it was shamefully cribbed from others. 'Fiesta' aka 'The Sun Also Rises' is certainly a brilliant novel and worthy of being on the curriculum in American universities. But it has led to tens of thousands of your youngsters coming to the fiesta and, presumably trying to emulate Ernesto, behaving in a disgraceful fashion.

For a start most of them think they are in Mexico and the Basques are as different to Mexicans as an Eskimo is to a Turk. They do not understand the local politics that are at best always volatile, and this year, following the brutal assassination of Angel Blanco by the ETA, a lot more so. Secondly, most of them are too young to drink in the States and after finding the cheap tinto they become incapably drunk. In Pamplona I admit it is not a sin to be incapably drunk, but being incapable without being obnoxious takes some experience of which your students have not an ounce.

The crucial survival code for Pamplona is pacing yourself and not letting the madness take you over completely at the start. Day three is the testing point. By then the men are separated from the boys. By day three you can bet that the station at Pamplona is overloaded with kids trying to redeem their packs so they can get the hell out of town. But day three is also when the fiesta really starts. It has found its own pace and settled into it's own rhythm. After its first great gasp, it gets a second breath. Any veteran will still be fresh and ready to enjoy the essence of San Fermin. By then all the musicians will be playing out of tune which actually adds to the charm. The drinking becomes rather more moderate. The siestas, which your students steadfastly ignore, become sacred. You can walk down to the river and find a spot to snooze without fornicating students under every tree. The ticket touts pack up and leave town. The engineers repair the toilets. This is probably the most important aspect of day three.

Thirdly, those students who try running with the bulls for the first time are becoming a menace. They very rarely run twice. Less than 1,000 runners are allowed in the streets at 8 a.m. Most of these are serious and experienced runners to whom the run is venerated. But up to half the runners these days tend to be inexperienced young drunks from places like Akron, Ohio, who merely clog up the street and deny the more serious runners a chance to compete. None of them will ever be like Matt Carney, a veteran New Yorker, who perfected the run into an art form and got to know the inside of the infirmary almost as well as he knew his favourite bars. When he died about ten years ago he left $2,000 in his will for a wake in Pamplona, which was held at the Club Taurino. There were many old and grizzled Basques there who had run with him for donkey's years and who came to pay tribute. The municipal band - numbering about 200 musicians - were laid on by the town council at vast cost and the wake eventually lasted for Forty-eight hours. Carney would be a very sad man if he could come back from the dead and see what his fellow countrymen have turned San Fermin into. By the way, Matt gained huge credit with the locals in the fifties when he said to Hemingway at Marcelliano's (featured prominently in Fiesta), "Hemingway, you may be able to write a bit, but at San Fermin you're just another little shit".

I ran for the first 21 years of my visits, at least three or four times during the seven days of the fiesta. I was never in Carney's class, but I had my day. To run properly it is imperative to know the street intimately and to fully understand the five places at which you are most vulnerable. You should learn how to run fast while looking over your shoulder, yet also be aware of the possible pitfalls ahead. The run is not just a schoolboy exercise in macho. It is imperative to be slightly tipsy, but never drunk. It is vital to respect the very stones of Estafeta - the main route. But to respect the bulls even more. It is also very wise to know when and how to get out. On the year I became a coward and gave up the encerrio, a bull called Matido got separated from the pack and began running the other way. After he had killed two and seriously gored 37 others, I broke through the door of a house in Estefeta to get out. Matido followed me in and right up to the first floor, where the stairway collapsed. Had I have had as much guts and experience as Matt Carney, I would never have found myself in that situation. This year a youth died because the drainpipe he climbed to escape a rampaging bull collapsed. The first thing you do in Estefeta is study the drainpipes. You will never outrun the bulls. But with speed, skill, timing and carefully choosing your starting point, you can get to the Plaza de Toro's before them on a good day, and that is the point of the exercise. I have nothing but the utmost disrespect for youths who merely stumble around half drunk getting in the way of those who understand the run. They cause more deaths through ignorance, mainly because of human pile-ups, than the bulls themselves. Get out of my street, Buddy, we don't need you!

It is a great blessing that your compatriots do not seem to have discovered Calle St Nicholas, also known as the Street of a Thousand Bars which remains the "old" Pamplona. I was able this year to drink my way down one side and up the other - rather a feat - without meeting a single American student. Instead, your students remain steadfastly in the main square, the Plaza Castillo, which in my younger day was the picture of tranquillity even in the most raucous of fiestas. Here is the Cafe Iruna which was featured in the film of Fiesta and in those days had large wicker tables and chairs where you could sit and enjoy an absinthe and watch the Basque dancing to the pipes and drums. It also had one of the only toilets in Pamplona which was kept working throughout the fiesta. In the morning you could have chocolate and churros for breakfast in the height of civility. The square was always a rip-off, but you paid for the peace. Now, after the fast-growing American invasion, the whole square, including the sacred Cafe Iruna, has been turned into a vast 24-hour disco with music that can seriously damage your health. There is simply not a single Pamplonese who will be found there. All that you will find is about five thousand young and very drunk Americans who actually believe that San Fermin is a glorified disco dance. The rip-off has now become ludicrous. They are just robbing your people blind. Oh, and the toilets in the Iruna this year didn't work from day one.

Another thing is the bullfights. It is the very worst kind of agony to pay a high price for a good seat and find yourself surrounded by a bunch of kids from Illinois who have been ipped off by the touts and who don't have the foggiest idea of what is going on. Watching a first class bullfight is another serious matter in which you have to scrutinise detail while keeping a full eye on the spectacle as a whole. Every single facet of the fight is a matter of deep concentration. You can, of course, make comments during a fight. Especially derisory. But I have found that if I do so while surrounded by your students they rudely expect me to give them an exclusive running commentary and, when, for example, I am trying to decide whether the picador is trying to ruin the bull or is honourably merely punishing him to prepare him for the next stage, some arsehole will turn to me and say: "Does that hurt the horse?" and you are expected to give a lecture on the finer points of picking.

Also, whenever the fiesta got on one nerves, a few years ago, one could wander in the cool of the evening to the extensive park which forms the citadel. Here there are antelope, the coolness of trees, and a couple of outdoor restaurants. In the evening it was always lovely to forsake the madness in town and go and eat the huge selection of tapas and drink a couple of cold beers. This year, the park was literally covered - almost every available blade of grass - with the prostrate bodies of American youths trying to sleep off vast quantities of booze. Either that, or fornicating. Or drinking further. They have turned my park into the Bowery and I won't forgive them for it.

This American invasion is a fairly new phenomenon. It has been building up gradually over the years as word of mouth went around the campuses. But now it is a serious menace. It is a virtual take-over and take-overs by foreigners of another culture are always undesirable. The British in the Costa del Sol are an example. So are the Germans in the Costa Blanca. Now your lot has kidnapped my Fiesta.

I implore you to either put Pamplona off-limits, or to create a new course on how to behave there, and how to properly appreciate it. Hemingway is the very worst example to follow for the young who are experiencing Spain, and especially Pamplona, for the first time.

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