Over the coming weeks and months and probably years we are
all going to wail and gnash our teeth as the Savile scandal plays out. How
could we not? It’s going to be another Hillsborough, except that this
particular cover up spanned half a century as opposed to a mere 23 years. At
Hillsborough 50,000 of us saw the whole thing play out in front of our eyes and
then we saw the authorities tell a completely different story. And for 23 years
we basically kept on and on saying ‘That’s not right! That’s total shite!’ But
we were merely little people and the powers that be laughed their socks off at
the lot of us. It isn’t hard to see how many parallels are about to appear as
we are taken deeper and deeper into Savile’s depraved world. I would happily
bet on the fact that the ongoing enquiry will throw up a pile of evidence that
will show that any number of people have in fact stepped forward to report what
was going down over rhe last half century. But they, like the 50,000 of us at Hillsborough, will turn out
to be the kind of little people nobody ever wants to hear. Not when the truth
we have to tell is of the inconvenient variety. Not when the truth offers a
clear and present danger to the big people and their treasured pension funds
On the subject of which….
Norman Bettison was one of the cover up kings at
Hillsborough.
Norman Bettison was promoted to be a Chief Constable – OF
MERSEYSIDE!
Norman Bettison was made SIR Norman Bettison.
And now that the truth has been prised out and it has become
clear that he is a conniving, scheming, conspiring, amoral, stop at nothing
twat, he is trying to retire early so he can wriggle himself clear of the consequences.
He must have Googled ‘Fred the Shred’…
Retire.
Duck out
And get paid £88,000 a year for the rest of his disgusting
life.
£88,000 a year from the people of Merseyside.
It is all so utterly, completely, rotten, stinking bad to
the core that it makes you want to tear your teeth out. Oh, and by the way.
£88,000 doesn’t represent the whole of his pension. The good folk of South and West Yorkshire are also chipping in to get him up to the
£200,000 a year mark.
There will be a whole host of names we haven’t heard about
yet who will be fingered over the coming months as we get to the bottom of just
what a horrible bastard Jimmy Savile really was. It will be Sir this and OBE
that. Good old boys who were deemed to offer a safe pair of hands. Salt of the earth
types schooled in the age old art of sweeping under the carpet and smoothing
over. Of course they didn’t want one of the BBC’s ‘National Treasures’ to be
unveiled as a serial sex offender. You don’t get the OBE and the gong and the
six figure tax payer pension when that kind of nastiness gets shovelled into
the public view on your watch. No way Hose. So you make sure the voices of the
inconvenient little people get shut down.
Shut right down.
The tabloids of course will love every second and revel in
the utter horribleness of it all. The fact that these were the very same
tabloids who threw down the red carpet to good old Jimmy is neither here nor
there. The world moves on, and a favourite Celeb becomes much better box office
as a piece of 'Paedo Scum Celeb!' (i.e. Headline - not me) as far as those magnificent men at the
redtops are concerned.
Usually when one sex offender emerges from any institution
of the 70’s and 80’s, it means that many more will inevitably follow. It was
the case with the Boy Scouts and Childrens’ Homes and the Catholic Church.
Probably Light Entertainment is about to be next in line. And no doubt there
will be more much loved National Treasures who will emerge as something
entirely different. We will revisit the issue of taking away knighthoods and
OBE’s and those who manage the charitable legacies of these tainted legends
will wish they had never volunteered for the job. But the Bettisons of this
world will no doubt slip quietly through the net. There will of course be calls
for their gold plated pensions to be taken away. And there will of course be
politicians with their faces creased with concern telling us that the law is
the law and we don’t do that sort of thing here in Britain . So we will continue to pay
Fred the Shred his £700k a year. And Bettison his £200k a year. A the right
honourable whoever who happened to shove the Savile complaints to the back of
his filing cabinets back in 1976 his however much a year.
And grouse will still get shot on windswept moors and Pimms
will still be slugged down at Henley and
strawberries and cream will still fly off the shelves at a tenner a pop at
Wimbledom.
Because in the end this is Great Britain and once you are
admitted to the club you get to stay in the club. And the little people who try
to tell the inconvenient truth will be forever hushed up.
The Jimmy Savile saga will play loud and long and the focus
of media attention will be on predatory sex offenders who look a bit weird. And
once again we will miss the real story because the real story is so ugly and
nasty that hardly anyone ever wants to look at it.
At the First Base Agency we have little choice but to look
at the real story. Why? Because we are a drug agency, that’s why. Before we
opened our doors back in 2003 someone told me that 70% of those among us who
have become dependent on heroin will have suffered some sort of abuse as kids.
Surely not. 70% has to be an exaggeration, doesn't it? But it isn’t an exaggeration. It is
another of those nasty, inconvenient truths. It is the sad and sorry career path
of many a lost soul who discover the ever warm embrace of heroin. At
eight they get abused by someone in the house who threatens to kill should they
whisper a word about it. Or kill their mum. Or kill their little sister. Or
kill their dog. And if they do tell their mum, their mum whacks them one and
tells them to stop lying. So they bottle it up and bite their lip and suffer
night after night of degradation until they are old enough for the abuser to
lose interest in them. And the boiling shame, anger and despair they feel inside
shows itself to the world in the form of anti-social behaviour at school and out
on the street. They get thrown out of lessons and fall behind in their work.
And they fall in with others who have been thrown out of lessons. And they play
truant together. And they steal booze and swig it down in parks together. And
they try street valium together. And they burn wheelie bins together. And they
rob shops together. And they serve time in Young Offenders Prisons together.
And they are bounced from hostel to hostel together. And they in the end find
the only thing that takes away the nightmares about what happened when they
were eight years old and their mum would have none of it.
It’s a well trodden path believe me. The long and winding
road from the hell of abuse to the heaven of Smack.
And not many get abused by weird looking national treasures
who strut their stuff on Top of the Tops. And not many are lifted from the
playground in the park by weird looking types offering sweeties and a ride in
the nice car for fish and chips. Instead the vast majority are abused by
someone who lives in the house where they live. A father or a stepfather or
some bloke their mum tells them to call uncle or an older stepbrother or a
grandfather. It’s bleak and it’s ugly and it’s the way it almost always plays
out.
Inconvenient truth. Ugly truth.
The real ugly truth is that among us there always have been
and always will be some who crave the chance of taking their sexual pleasure
with kids. At times this is deemed to be OK. In the days of the Roman Empire , having grown women as wives were deemed a dreary necessity
to produce kids. Real pleasure was to be had from pre teen slave boys and
girls. Mostly boys. Three or four hundred years ago in Britain it was
considered perfectly right and proper for a man to marry an eleven year old. In
India
right here and right now, over 200,000 kids are abducted from the streets every
year. No prizes for guessing how the organised criminal gangs who manage the
abductions make their cash from the little girls.
The laws of our land have changed over the years and thank God
for that. It has become harder and harder for the Jimmy Saviles among us to get
their kicks following traditional methods. They have had to change their ways.
Their Modus Operandi. Forty years ago, there were a number of career paths open
to those who wanted access to vulnerable young people who nobody would listen
to. Become a scout master. Work in a Childrens’ Home. Take your vows and
become a Catholic priest. Light entertainment at the Beeb? Maybe.
One by one, we have managed to close these windows of
opportunity. Thank Christ. Back in those dark days, an abuser’s own family
offered a poor option. An abuser could take a wife, have kids and abuse those
kids. But it wasn’t all that easy. Families were closer knit back then. Uncles
and Aunties and Grandparents all lived in the streets nearby. There were more
people for a young person to tell. People who loved them. People who were
inclined to believe them. People willing to make sure things were nipped in the
bud. And even if the abuser got away with it with their own kids, eventually
their own kids would grow up. And that was that. Because marriages lasted for
life back then. That’s why the Childrens’ Homes and the Catholic Church and the
Scout groups made offered a more attractive option.
So where are we now? Well things have changed. Changed
utterly, as Yeats once said. Now barely one in three marriages lasts the
course. Online dating sites offer potential abusers literally millions of
single mothers of one or two or three. And they have perfected the art of being
Mr really, really nice who is ever so good with the kids. And they get asked to
move in. And they move in. And the kids are asked to call the new guy uncle
this or uncle that. And when they have taken the opportunity to use and abuse the
kids on offer, they simply move out, log on and start over. Are there as many
people to tell? No. Families are no longer nearly as close, either emotionally
or geographically. And as a society, our leaders have encouraged us to despise
the single mother with three out of control kids and forty fags a day and
tattoos everywhere and a 42 inch widescreen TV and an ever open door for any
bloke down the pub who will ply her with Blue Wicked all Friday night. Do we
listen? Will we listen? Of course we don’t. We make Schemie jokes and Chav
jokes and we silently cheer when George Osborne promises to come down on the
spongers and the dissolute like a tonne of bricks.
The inconvenient truth.
Our miserable excuse of a society has become a veritable
playground for the abusers who are forever among us. No longer do they have to
go to the trouble of getting a job in a dismal Childrens Home or studying
theology or learning the words of Ging-Gang-Gooligong. Not necessary. Now they
simply have to log on. Play nice and find a single mum with no support network.
And when they are done with that one, they can log back on and find another.
And will anyone listen? Of course we won’t. We’ll read about
Jimmy Savile instead
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