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Showing posts with label bootneck on the beach. Show all posts
Showing posts with label bootneck on the beach. Show all posts
Monday, 13 August 2018
Sunday, 23 December 2012
Pleb email
The reason why I have published is the "Stephen Nolan" (5Live radio, Sat 2200hrs) discussion last evening with the Labour bigot and bully. All I can say Stephen is that your contributor must have been sat on his face because his contribution came directly out of his arse.
Some have been directly effected by Police actions and not to the good - so when the families of 96 Scousers have to wait 23 years just to get an impartial investigation into the deaths of their loved ones, it is tantamount to the owners of the Spirit of Free Enterprise declaring that their victims were cult figures partaking in a mass suicide. The allegations, evidence and the police involvement in these as the only Investigating Authority with credibility, has become risible as the Police again protect themselves against substantiated allegations.
The Police Defence League immediately form and use every trick in the book to protect those guilty of some heinous crime allowed to hide within their ranks. Take the Officer who was responsible for the death of the London alcoholic Ian Tomlinson. I deliberately use the inflammatory description of a deceased man because he had a debilitating disease and the media and the police used this information irrespective of the fact that the Police had employed a known thug. Where is/was the Duty of Care that the police hold to Ian Tomlinson? It was quickly and conveniently hidden under the more palatable truth(sic) of the dead man's failings rather than the culpability of the Met.
Let me just counter that with one instance, as the Police keep reminding us that they are the only ones protecting society from all the ills of terrorism and such like. I was on deployment to Ulster and was tasked to overlook one of the most incendiary parts of that wonderful province. We were six as a unit, not all from the same source. We spent ten weeks or more in cramped and hostile conditions spying on the then IRA under the leadership of Seán Mac StÃofáin, a London Mafia figure with his own agenda. Needless to say that the task was dangerous and it is probably illegal for me to retell as it will still be covered by the Official Secrets Act. What I remember more than the deployment was the speed with which the MoD dispensed with three of the group and they disappeared into the ether. It wasn't unusual for service personnel to get sudden drafts, but when I was driving back from Scotland after a subsequent deployment to the Burning Province, I happened to pull alongside one of the trio on the Old Road leading into Bristol. It was not what he told me that stuck in my mind, but what he omitted.
Have things changed so drastically that the Police are no longer answerable for their misconduct? That Toothless fairy the IPCC is about as much use as the Press Complaints Commission and the Charities Commission. There is NO independent scrutiny into the Police and what redress there is goes through the Police's own vetting system, like a alcoholic being given the keys to Bargains Booze. It is akin to the Parliamentarians running the rule over their own expenses, it is bound to lead to further problems. The Tommy Atkins syndrome is as vicious today as it always has been and the culpability lies with politicians and those who give them blind obedience.
Thursday, 27 October 2011
Remember the Squaddie
The Poppy Appeal commences on 24th October.
Please read and forward.
They are doing their bit ... please do yours by reading this and forwarding it to someone else:
The average British soldier is 19 years old ... he is a short haired, well built lad who, under normal circumstances is considered by society as half man, half boy. Not yet dry behind the ears and just old enough to buy a round of drinks but old enough to die for his country – and for you. He’s not particularly keen on hard work but he’d rather be grafting in Afghanistan than unemployed in the UK. He recently left comprehensive school where he was probably an average student, played some form of sport, drove a ten year old rust bucket, and knew a girl that either broke up with him when he left, or swore to be waiting when he returns home. He moves easily to rock and roll or hip‐hop or to the rattle of a 7.62mm machine gun.
He is about a stone lighter than when he left home because he is working or fighting from dawn to dusk and well beyond. He has trouble spelling, so letter writing is a pain for him, but he can strip a rifle in 25 seconds and reassemble it in the dark. He can recite every detail of a machine gun or grenade launcher and use either effectively if he has to. He digs trenches and latrines without the aid of machines and can apply first aid like a professional paramedic. He can march until he is told to stop, or stay dead still until he is told to move.
He obeys orders instantly and without hesitation but he is not without a rebellious spirit or a sense of personal dignity. He is confidently self‐sufficient. He has two sets of uniform with him: he washes one and wears the other. He keeps his water bottle full and his feet dry. He sometimes forgets to brush his teeth, but never forgets to clean his rifle. He can cook his own meals, mend his own clothes and fix his own hurts. If you are thirsty, he'll share his water with you; if you are hungry, his food is your food. He'll even share his life‐saving ammunition with you in the heat of a firefight if you run low. He has learned to use his hands like weapons and regards his weapon as an extension of his own hands. He can save your life or he can take it, because that is his job ‐ it's what a soldier does. He often works twice as long and hard as a civilian, draws half the pay and has nowhere to spend it, and can still find black ironic humour in it all. There's an old saying in the British Army: 'If you can't take a joke, you shouldn't have joined!'
He has seen more suffering and death than he should have in his short lifetime. He has wept in public and in private, for friends who have fallen in combat and he is unashamed to show it or admit it. He feels every bugle note of the 'Last Post' or 'Sunset' vibrate through his body while standing rigidly to attention. He's not afraid to 'Bollock' anyone who shows disrespect when the Regimental Colours are on display or the National Anthem is played; yet in an odd twist, he would defend anyone's right to be an individual. Just as with generations of young people before him, he is paying the price for our freedom. Clean shaven and baby faced he may be, but be prepared to defend yourself if you treat him like a kid. He is the latest in a long thin line of British Fighting Men who have kept this country free for hundreds of years.
He asks for nothing from us except our respect, friendship and understanding. We may not like what he does, but sometimes he doesn't like it either ‐ he just has it to do.
Remember him always, for he has earned our respect and admiration with his blood. Now we even have brave young women putting themselves in harm's way, doing their part in this tradition of going to war when our nation's politicians call on us to do so.
Please read and forward.
They are doing their bit ... please do yours by reading this and forwarding it to someone else:
The average British soldier is 19 years old ... he is a short haired, well built lad who, under normal circumstances is considered by society as half man, half boy. Not yet dry behind the ears and just old enough to buy a round of drinks but old enough to die for his country – and for you. He’s not particularly keen on hard work but he’d rather be grafting in Afghanistan than unemployed in the UK. He recently left comprehensive school where he was probably an average student, played some form of sport, drove a ten year old rust bucket, and knew a girl that either broke up with him when he left, or swore to be waiting when he returns home. He moves easily to rock and roll or hip‐hop or to the rattle of a 7.62mm machine gun.
He is about a stone lighter than when he left home because he is working or fighting from dawn to dusk and well beyond. He has trouble spelling, so letter writing is a pain for him, but he can strip a rifle in 25 seconds and reassemble it in the dark. He can recite every detail of a machine gun or grenade launcher and use either effectively if he has to. He digs trenches and latrines without the aid of machines and can apply first aid like a professional paramedic. He can march until he is told to stop, or stay dead still until he is told to move.
He obeys orders instantly and without hesitation but he is not without a rebellious spirit or a sense of personal dignity. He is confidently self‐sufficient. He has two sets of uniform with him: he washes one and wears the other. He keeps his water bottle full and his feet dry. He sometimes forgets to brush his teeth, but never forgets to clean his rifle. He can cook his own meals, mend his own clothes and fix his own hurts. If you are thirsty, he'll share his water with you; if you are hungry, his food is your food. He'll even share his life‐saving ammunition with you in the heat of a firefight if you run low. He has learned to use his hands like weapons and regards his weapon as an extension of his own hands. He can save your life or he can take it, because that is his job ‐ it's what a soldier does. He often works twice as long and hard as a civilian, draws half the pay and has nowhere to spend it, and can still find black ironic humour in it all. There's an old saying in the British Army: 'If you can't take a joke, you shouldn't have joined!'
He has seen more suffering and death than he should have in his short lifetime. He has wept in public and in private, for friends who have fallen in combat and he is unashamed to show it or admit it. He feels every bugle note of the 'Last Post' or 'Sunset' vibrate through his body while standing rigidly to attention. He's not afraid to 'Bollock' anyone who shows disrespect when the Regimental Colours are on display or the National Anthem is played; yet in an odd twist, he would defend anyone's right to be an individual. Just as with generations of young people before him, he is paying the price for our freedom. Clean shaven and baby faced he may be, but be prepared to defend yourself if you treat him like a kid. He is the latest in a long thin line of British Fighting Men who have kept this country free for hundreds of years.
He asks for nothing from us except our respect, friendship and understanding. We may not like what he does, but sometimes he doesn't like it either ‐ he just has it to do.
Remember him always, for he has earned our respect and admiration with his blood. Now we even have brave young women putting themselves in harm's way, doing their part in this tradition of going to war when our nation's politicians call on us to do so.
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