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NEWCASTLE JOURNAL - 26.2.04
You should regard this article as a slice of humble pie. You may remember that, in a recent article, I cast aspersions on the standard of Police Firearms Training, comparing it unfavourably with that of the Special Forces. This was grossly unfair as you can only compare like with like and the two types of training are chalk and cheese. In military training the aim is 'termination with extreme prejudice'. Police training is about exercising the 'Non Lethal Option' wherever and whenever possible. I am pleased to be able to say that our Chief Constable is a reader of this column and it was at his suggestion that I received a firm, but polite, rebuke from the 'Commander- Operational Support' at Ponteland. There will be no names in this piece. Firearms Officers are shy about their names and faces appearing in the public domain for obvious reasons of security. Apart from putting me in my place the COS offered me an unprecedented chance to witness the training process and a fascinating morning I had of it. My minder for the occasion was one of the Inspectors (Firearms Training) a most cheerful and helpful companion. The first step was to watch a video on the use of the Baton Gun. This weapon has long been in use with the Army in Ulster, but is a relative newcomer to civilian police forces in mainland Britain. This gun fires a solid plastic round. The Police point of aim is classified information, but I can say that if you copped one, it would definitely concentrate your mind. The Baton Gun has been brought in as a 'Less Lethal Option' to fill a gap between the use of firearms and the dog. Northumbria considers itself to be in the top echelon of firearms training and takes in officers from other forces in this country as well as from overseas forces The next move was to the range - a disused stone quarry out in the hills - out of the sight and mind of the general public. Here there are a variety of training facilities - a row of wooden doors for practising the various methods of forced and speedy entry - a steel door of the type much favoured by drug dealers, which can be cut through in short order. There is 'Hogan's Alley' - a configuration of interconnected rooms in a plywood shell, used for simulated house searches. There is a practice range for the Batten Gun with a golfing net at the end to field the battens. Then there is the live firing range, where range discipline is absolute and the three most important words are - safety, safety, safety. The targets are cut outs of nasty looking men with their vital area marked off. A firearms officer is expected to get every round into the vital area. I do not think that it is a secret (after all, you see them at every airport) that the police used Heckler & Koch machine carbines and Glock pistols. Both use a 9mm round which is interchangeable. Weapon modernisation is ongoing and the carbine is being upgraded. That is all you need to know. There is also a great beast of a sniper rifle, from the same stable as the military model. The Glock is used with a 'retention holster' - easily released by the wearer, but not by an attacker. Many American policemen are killed with their own guns. The team laid on a factually based scenario for me. 'Pete' has been causing trouble in a West End pub. The police are called. The computer shows that Pete has convictions for violence, so an Armed Response Unit is sent. This will usually consist of at least 2 vehicles, which are tactically placed to cover the suspect from two angles and to give cover to the officers. Pete is sitting on a box outside the 'pub' waving a machete and breathing threatenings and slaughter. The warning 'Armed Police' is given and efforts are made to persuade Pete into the way of peace. Pete's response is very negative. The attempted persuasion continues to no avail. At last Pete gets up, brandishing his machete and is dropped with a baton. Two officers immediately run in and detain him. ARUs are automatically sent to the scene if a weapon is reported. It may only be a kid with an airgun, but who knows? The problem was made plain back at HQ where a display of real and replica handguns (all from the Newcastle area) were laid out on a table. After a careful inspection, I found it almost impossible to tell them apart - a police officer has a matter of seconds to decide. More snap decisions - I was given a Glock and they ran a series of short clips of simulated armed robberies. I had to decide if and when to shoot. Pulling the trigger stops the film and your shot is marked. I was then debriefed as to what I had seen and why I had fired? Was my shot safe? What had I seen? I was rather pleased with myself when I shot the first villain through the head, well he was aiming at me, but why had I fired a lethal shot? In the next clip of an ambush of a security guard in a store, I got three shots off - two missed (one nearly totalled an innocent shopper) the third got the villain in the trunk - but why had I endangered an innocent woman? Why had I fired without a proper backstop? Why? Why? Why? Those Whys and many more are what every officer who fires a shot has to face. The book of rules that he is expected to know is as thick as the Newcastle telephone directory and he has to pass a fitness and firearms test every 16 weeks. At any one time there is in the region of 100 people under training:" It is very difficult to get on the firearms unit and even more difficult to stay there." As a sergeant explained, the aim is not to have an armed police force, but to have policemen who are properly trained in the use of firearms:" But underneath we want the Good Old British Bobby." Amen to that. Gentlemen, I salute you. I ate my humble pie and enjoyed every mouthful. Thank you all.

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NEWCASTLE JOURNAL - 19.2.04
The other day, I walked the old railway line from Redesmouth to West Woodburn. I did this (a) because I needed a walk, (b) because hounds were hunting the other bank of the Rede and I thought that I would get a good view (c) in my newly impoverished state, walking is good for me physically, mentally and financially. For the avoidance of doubt, my fall from fiscal grace has been caused by the 'discontinuance' of a column that I had written for a National Daily for the last 17 years. I feel sour about this, although it is a common enough occurrence in the journalistic world, because it was badly done. I felt that after 17 years I deserved better than a curt note signed by a junior clerk, which gave no reason for my dismissal. However the paper has a new editor, whom I suspect of deeply PC tendencies and who is threshing about in a financial quicksand. I ought to say that I wish him luck - and I do - just as much luck as he wished me. Several other longstanding columnists whose views accorded with the gently conservative zeitgeist of the paper have also been hoyed oot. I just hope that when my time comes to be defenestrated from the Journal, the editor will choose to look me in the eye before he pushes me. But back to the railway (this would have been part of the old 'Wannies' line, I suppose) as I plodded along, several thoughts occurred to me. The first thought was that to get a steam engine for Redesmouth Junction to the top of the Wannies, must have required some canny skill on the part of the driver and some great shovelling on the part of the fireman - it is, as they say, a 'hard lead'. I would be very interested to talk to any remaining footplate men who worked this twisting gradient. The next thing that came to mind was the great engineering skills of the men who built those lines with pick and shovel, much sweat and not a little swearing - the old 'Navigators' (Navvies) must truly have been 'Britain's hardy sons'. Their memorial lies in the firmness of the old track bed and the excellence of the work in the construction of the many stone bridges and culverts. Each one is a still solid work of art, built of beautifully dressed blocks of stone - truly a 'sermon in stones'. My last thought was that had that line not succumbed to the Beeching butchery, what a tourist attraction it might be today - ripping it up was truly an act of bureaucratic vandalism.

To Yorkshire for a happy / sad occasion - Stephen Todd, the Head Keeper on the Ravenswick Estate has just retired after 50 years of service. He has been a friend of mine for 30 years and there are few men that I admire as much. A man of few words and a dry, but devastating, sense of humour - he was a staunch ally to me when I hunted the Sinnington Hounds and in all the years we worked together we never had a cross word. Because of Stephen's skill and knowledge, Ravenswick was a shining example of how hunting and shooting can comfortably co-exist and the big dale of Rumsgill produced some tremendous hunting (including, what I reckon was one of the best hunts of my career) and pheasants of the highest and most challenging quality. He was also a wonderful natural naturalist. I owe him much and therefore I was very honoured to be asked to say a few words at a meet on the Estate to mark his retirement. Four packs of hounds turned out in his honour and a huge crowd of folk. I would like to be able to say that we had a classic days hunting, but sadly, scent was almost non-existent. In spite of that, it was a great day and I saw a lot of good old friends some of whom I had not seen for 20 years. It was a great day for a great countryman - may he have a long and happy retirement.

I do not often say good things about the EU, but it has come up with a new scheme that is worthy of note. Euro farmers are to be encouraged to grow more straw. The straw will then be turned into straw briquettes that will fuel power stations, thereby saving the use of FiniteFossilFuels. Now does that not sound a Mega Idea? Enough to make all the Greenies go wobbly at the knees with pleasure - surely no one can find a flaw in such an ecologically beautiful idea - absolutely no buts, you might think. BUT there is just one teensy weensy But. It seems that the process of turning the straw into briquettes will use more FiniteFossilFuels, than will ever be saved by using them in the power stations. A mere detail of course when put in the context of the Greater Good of a United Europe.

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NEWCASTLE JOURNAL - 12.2.04
The 'Local Government Association' is the umbrella body for all local authorities. It has recently produced a policy document entitled: 'Sexuality - the New Agenda' - I would not ask you to wade through this almost impenetrable swamp of bureaucratic jargon - you might never come out the other side. I will, in the current buzz phrase, 'cherry pick' it for you. For instance: 'Some 50% of people being approved of as adoptive parents in Brighton and Hove are from the lesbian, gay and bisexual community. B&H Council has also shown that it is committed to taking rigorous action against homophobia, including, in one instance, de-registering foster carers who stated that they opposed lesbians being parents.' Or to put this another way: 'If you're queer, you're welcome, dear. If you're straight, hard luck, mate' you may find this somewhat bewildering, but that is the current official zeitgeist. I suppose it is not surprising when you consider the sexuality of a large proportion of the present Cabinet. I am not homophobic. In fact I can say that I am totally relaxed in every sense and every part, when it comes to 'alternative sexuality'. Whatever turns you on, just as long as you don't try to turn it on me. You might encounter what I am sure the LGA would refer to as a 'negative interface response', or to put it another way - I'd fell ye. Alternative Sexuality is not a thing you come across much in rural areas, except; it seems, amongst Badger Watchers. You may remember that this was how the much-lamented Ron Davies (late of the Welsh Office, or somewhere) described his woodland activities. However, I thought I would find out how Alnwick District Council stood on this matter. It faxed me a Press Statement, which stressed its support for Equal Opportunities and its opposition to 'discrimination against any form of minority - whether on the basis of sexuality, gender, colour, race, religion or disability.' It does not mention Foxhunters, but otherwise fairly straight forward you might think, forbye what you might think of some of the grammar. It concludes:" We are soon to undertake equal opportunities training to reinforce our current policies". In other words the Thought Police are being sent in. What worries me is that the way things are going in this country, Alternative Sexuality may soon become compulsory - an Outreach too far, I fear. You may remember that I wrote about my small unpleasantness at Newcastle aerodrome, which prevented my lecture trip to Ireland. You may be pleased to hear that the Irish were most understanding about it and have invited me to have another go in September. The problem is how to get there. Ryan Air is the only carrier out of Newcastle and it has banned me. I am not sure whether this ban is forever plus a day, or not, but I will get there somehow. I enjoy going to Ireland and have many Irish friends. Indeed I nearly went to live there once. That would have been a mistake. The Irish have never lost their sense of history, as the English have. I always wriggle in my chair when I hear supposedly knowledgeable commentators saying that the 'Troubles' in Ireland started '30 years ago' - add 1,000 to that and you will be getting warm. The history of English repression and Irish rebellion began when the Normans invaded Ireland. Gallic memories are long. I have a great Irish friend who hates the English, although he claims that I am an exception. His hatred dates back over 400 years to the time when an English Earl (Essex or Leicester) hanged 9 members of his family. When I first came to live up here, I used to visit an old lady (now sadly gone from us) who would tell me tales of the old days on the Border as vividly as my mother describes her shopping trips to Alnwick. My favourite story was of when her family (she was a North Tyne Robson) slipped over the Border and relieved the Grahams of the burden of a large flap of sheep. However, when the Robsons got their shopping home, they were incensed to discover that the sheep had the Scab. Indeed so incensed were the Robsons that they turned round and rode right back over the Border. This time they found the Grahams at home and to celebrate their visit they hanged the odd dozen or so. They also left a note pinned to one of the victims saying that the next time that Gentlemen came to lift their sheep, would the Grahams please ensure that the sheep were: 'Noe scabbit' - an excellent example of an early prosecution under the Trades Descriptions Act.

On the old drove road from Kale to Bowmont there is a lonely, tumbled, steading that appears on the map as 'Sea View' - passing strange, I thought, as the sea is 25 miles away with a good flap of the Cheviots in between. I consulted a local herd of great local knowledge. He hooted with laughter. It is not 'Sea View' but 'See Few' and that would be absolutely right.

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NEWCASTLE JOURNAL - 5.2.04
Readers will know that I am not a great fan of the BBC, but I do not like to see it being slaughtered like a Thai chicken. I am surprised that anyone was surprised by the result of the Hutton Inquiry. After all the Government set it up, appointed the Chairman and set its terms of reference. Just as turkeys do not vote for Christmas no government, especially one as clever and corrupt as this one, was going to bare its throat to the knife. . Every Government plays with marked cards. Much play was made of the impeccable rectitude of Lord Hutton and I would not doubt it for a second, but so righteous is he that he would not stray an inch over the boundaries of his terms of reference. The Government, who kenned this fine, had little fear of being savaged by His Legal Lordship and had every hope that he would sink his teeth into the plump rump of the Beeb. This is exactly what Hutton did and in some tune. In the long view, this may be no bad thing for the Beeb - it has become smug, PC and flabby. It will recover from its mauling and, one hopes, learn from it. In the short term the Government thinks that it has got itself off the hook and the Beeb onto it. There it now hangs like the eviscerated carcase of a pig, leaving NuLab to gloat in a most unseemly manner. There are certain things that this government may be innocent of (although nothing springs readily to mind) but hubris is not one of them. I will remind you that hubris is defined as - 'arrogance or over confidence, especially when likely to result in disaster or ruin'. This blade now hangs over the head of Nulab and the long-term damage it has brought upon itself has yet to be revealed. The wounds may appear slight, but if not treated (and the government shows no signs of heeding them) may yet turn septic with terminal gangrene setting in. Hutton could well put the government and Nulab in the intensive care ward. You may find it strange that I hope Blair survives for the present. Much as I dislike and distrust him he is as 'a babe muling and puking in his mother's arms' compared to the dark shadow of Gordon Brown. If the 'Dark Lord' takes over, we are truly come to Mordor.

To matters more cheerful: to the Fenham Barracks Officers' Mess for the Burns Supper of the Northumbria Army Cadet Force. I regard the ACF as an excellent organisation. It takes young people from a world driven mad and bad by good PC intentions and gives them a sound grounding in the basic physical and moral training that schools and parents cannot, or will not, give. This training provides a solid base for the good citizenship on which a well ordered society is built. There are those who scoff at the idea of good order and discipline - they call such things 'elitist'. I have no problem with 'elitism' - it is merely a search for excellence. Excellent people are something that this country is sorely in need of. The ACF is always looking for mature people to help with its work. Any of you who are interested should contact Major Spence on 01670 732 323. But, enough moralising, it was a most enjoyable evening with good crack and a good meal, which included a very tasty haggis. It was unfortunate that the weather had caused many guests to cry off. This meant that there were several drams (you can't have haggis without a dram) looking idle and spare. As that old piece of shrapnel precludes me from dancing, I lit a cigar and took the spare drams in hand.

It has occurred to me to wonder why the English and especially Northumbrians, who have learned from hard experience to regard the Scots with a smidgeon of suspicion, should be so enthusiastic about celebrating Burns Night. Burns was a lubricious Scottish farmer. His farm failed because of his attachment to wenching and dramming, so he turned to poetry. This made him famous. This is somewhat strange, as his poetry is little understood, being written in impenetrable dialect. The thought of his 'Ode to the Haggis' being read at suppers all over the world (including Moscow and Japan) positively boggles the mind. Very few people even seem to know what a Haggis is (some Americans believe they live wild in Scotland and have to be shot). According to 'Lady Evelyn's Cook Book' - Gleneil Press - it consists of a sheep's stomach, filled with a mixture of minced mutton and offal, with oatmeal, chopped onions, suet and seasoning. It is steamed and served with mashed potatoes and neeps. Under the dead hand of EU regs, the sheep's stomach has been replaced with plastic wrapping. Haggis is a 'solid pleasure and a lasting joy'. I like it very much, but I warn you - and I put this as delicately as possible - it puts a profound strain in the intestinal process with serious fundamental results. Like garlic, it should only be eaten by consenting adults and in sympathetic company.

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