Featured today: cover-up in Salford, father of groomed son’s struggle to nail a pervert, and Stuart Hall’s Parliamentary chums
Like J Edgar Hoover denying the existence of the Mafia, the British Establishment continues to dismiss the evidence of organised systemic child abuse. But the wall of denial is rapidly crumbling.
Following yesterday’s Slogpost about the Kincora Boys Home in Ulster, I’ve had several heartfelt and illuminating emails from former residents, as well as the relatives of those who suffered….and from the children of those involved in a cover-up that still pricks their collective conscience. The following extract is typical:
‘There are many things I would like to say, but have to give it some more thought, even though I’ve spent the last 20 plus years doing just that….There is so much I want to say and shout out, it’s driven me to the brink of “Insanity” – having played the consequences out in my mind, anyone able to read it would think it was a Parody of le Carré. I honestly believe what happened in Northern Ireland will never honestly be told. In my opinion Kincora (tip of an iceberg) can never be fully exposed, especially now there is a semblance of “peace.” ‘
Emails about associated miscarriarriages of justice continue to pour in:
‘Our Son C—— was abused in Care in Salford in 2003. Teachers were told that talking to us would mean an instant P45 and that the CEO of Salford Council would try and ruin their careers….the abusers P—- and A—— have never lived in Salford, but not only fostered for them, they also adopted from them and were used to promote foster care.’
And for those who think this entire syndrome is invented, I realise that The Guardian isn’t the best antidote on the planet, but I doubt if even they would print the unadulterated codswallop of a fantasist. This piece from a grown-up journalist appeared yesterday…about somebody trying to groom his 16 year-old son with the help of alcohol:
‘You can text him your order – vodka, whisky, whatever you like – and he will meet you in an alleyway to exchange goods for money. He charges the same prices as the shops, so the kids can afford it. It turns out I know him, though have never spoken to him. He’s a local councillor.
I go to my son’s Facebook page and there’s my councillor, popping up like a meerkat, immediately obvious because he’s four times the age of everyone else on the page. He’s making a suggestive comment about a photo of my son. I go through the list of contacts on my son’s phone and find the councillor’s number. I learn that he runs a Facebook group that has about 90 teenagers and no adults. When I look it up I can see the children of friends among the members.’
Ooh look, the paedophile’s in local government. Well I never. Anyway, the Dad tries to report this pretty obvious case of recruitment:
‘I talk to the parents of my son’s friends and, in our children’s absence, three sets of parents go to the police. Our testimony appears to corroborate the information and arrest from earlier in the year. We think it must be enough evidence, but it seems that, without a victim statement, it is simply hearsay. The police won’t even issue a caution, which is what we had hoped for. It would be a public statement on the matter – without one, the fear is that this will sit in a filing cabinet as if it never happened. I can already hear the drawer sliding shut.’
This has so much redolence for me from my days in Plymouth, Stafford and Chester. Higher and higher the Dad goes:
‘I take out a complaint using the council’s formal procedure. I’m worried that his power protects him. Six weeks later I’m sitting in the office opposite the head of the council’s legal team. She has a look of sympathy, tinged with regret. It’s a look I’ll see a lot of over the coming months, before they say they can’t help me. She tells me that my complaint cannot be taken forward because the code of conduct for councillors applies only to activities related to official duties…..I visit the town clerk in the hope of putting a question to the council and am told I won’t be allowed to do so. It’s an unfortunate meeting that sets the tone for our future correspondence. There are mumblings about having me removed from the building if I decide to cause trouble, and warnings about accepting the consequences of my actions should I make any unsubstantiated allegations public….So I email the councillor, politely and briefly, asking him to explain his behaviour. I expect a reply, get none, and three weeks later receive a letter from the police accusing me of harassment.’
Yet people still wonder how these bastards keep going, over and over again: wiping records, laughing at authority, exploiting power protection, and running a coach and six through years of braindead political correctness. If you’re a sexual sadist, there are many places to hide and giggle to yourself as parents like the one above try in vain to do the right thing. I can only tell you that, while I am not and never have been a violent man – I once whacked my first wife with a cushion for shagging a man she knew I loathed, but that’s it – had this boy been my son, I would’ve dialled rentathug without a moment’s hesitation and had him beaten to a pulp barely distinguishable from Aubergine dip.
And therein lies the problem: for if the legal system has lost the plot – resorting to earning its living in pursuit of ambulances and the defence of rich criminals – and the police care only about reporting homophobia as a means towards promotion, then the only option left for concerned citizens is vigilanteism. Down that road, uncivilised anarchy and Hobbesian brutality lie.
But while civilisation is sliding downhill towards Hell, how are things going over at Plod’s Elm House enquiry? Harr they followin’ hup hany leads, sah? Er, well….sort of. Indeed, just as the famous Inspector Streeb-Greebling invented by Peter Cook quickly decided that the Great Train Robbery “is clearly the work of thieves”, the Fernbridge Force now seem to accept that Elm House in Rocks Lane “was part of several loosely organised rings of paedophiles and pornographers throughout the Capital and beyond”.
Right then: paedophile rings exist – official. It’s a small step for Plodkind, but better than nothing. I don’t want to force them into walking and chewing gum at the same time or anything, but might I suggest that another team be set up to look into the antics of famous Lancastrian Estate Agent and convicted rapist Owen Oyston; a former MP and fellow party-goer now a Peer – Tom Pendry; and their mutual friend Tony Blair? I’m just trying to be helpful here.
Oh, and I nearly forgot: they had another mutual friend. Stuart Hall.