Don’t Let’s Be Beastly To The Germans

But why shouldn’t I be beastly? You killed my grandma, you teutonic bastards!

Ah, but when I say ‘you’ who do I actually mean? The generation that blitzed Britain, invaded most of Europe and exterminated nearly all of European Jewry is almost gone bar a few aged relicts gumming their Iron Crosses in very clean senior facilities, and the Germans of today bear no responsibility for past horrors.

Rational people realise this. Nevertheless, negative feelings towards Germany and stereotypes about Germans persist, both in the US and in Britain:

Not that there isn’t a kernel of truth in some of the stereotyping; this video is one of a series from German broadcaster Deutsche Welle‘s YouTube channel called The Truth About Germany and explains the concept of speißigheit:

spießig
smug {adj}
suburban {adj}
bourgeois {adj}
philistine {adj}
narrow-minded {adj}
petty bourgeois {adj}
white-bread {adj} [coll.]
square {adj} [coll.: boringly traditional]

The whole series is well worth watching.

As if being labelled petty bourgeois, obsessive and dull weren’t enough, one of the most persistent stereotypes of Germans is that they have no sense of humour.

Oh ja? Is dat zo? German comedian Henning Vehn has made it his mission to turn that particular stereotype inside out and give it a good shake:

Here he is trying to entice visitors with his guide to (West) Germany;

…and boggling at the British tabloids’ obsession with the Nazis and WWII:

Yes, our papers are a bit obsessed, aren’t they ? You’d think the German armed forces were some kind of mechanical death whirlwind rather than fallible human beings:

Less mechanical death whirlwind, more Windy Miller.

So what have we learned from this brief foray into German culture and humour? Bugger-all really, other than the Germans are just like us really, and stereotypes (whilst sometimes having at their core a teensy-weensy little seed of truth) are just mental constructs that serve to distance us from our common humanity. It’s much easier to kill a humourless kraut than it is to kill a fellow human being who’s quite nice really. Let’s not be beastly to the Germans – we’re going to need them soon anyway, when the economy goes to shit.

Do ‘Rogue’ Cops Carry Smaller Equipment? A Totally Unscientific Analysis

police-accessories

The inevitable report that Metropolitan police Drug Squad officers allegedly waterboarded a suspect by repeatedly flushing his head down the loo has got me wondering. Has anyone measured British coppers’ family jewels or done a survey of how many own ’24’ box sets?

I ask these odd questions because this American style of paramilitary, gung-ho, taser-wielding, meathead policing, given full rein by New Labour and ACPO, is now the norm in the UK. If this style of policing isn’t official policy, as senior officers aver, where is it coming from?

It’s coming from somewhere and it’s getting worse, as fraud lawyer Robert Hunter writes in The Times’ Law Central blog. Post-arrest policing is undergoing a similar Law & Order-style metamorphosis and police are going outside traditional PACE-based British interview techniques, ignoring procedure and using US style, ‘3rd degree’ interrogation to intimidate suspects into confessing:

Interview techniques are now a lot better and fairer than they used to be, with much more emphasis on respecting the interviewee and finding out what he has to say before challenging him.

Yet, despite the improvement, some studies suggest that on rare occasions police officers in the UK have resorted to what is known as “American-style” tactics to obtain a confession.

In the US, interrogating a suspect — as opposed to interviewing them — is more acceptable.

The difference between an interrogation and an interview is all-important. Interrogation is not designed to find the truth. Rather, as one FBI law enforcement bulletin put it, an interrogation is “less of a conversation than a monologue by investigators in which they provide suspects with acceptable reasons to confess”.

[…]

the most influential is called the “Reid nine-steps”.

Under this method, the interrogator appears in no doubt about the suspect’s guilt and avoids any discussion of the evidence. Rather, he presents himself as a friendly figure, trying to do the suspect a favour by allowing him the opportunity to give his side of the story. In fact, the suspect will find it hard to get a word in edgeways.

The suspect will not be allowed to deny the crime more than once, as repeated denials are believed to be harmful to the prospect of obtaining a confession. The interrogator will cut him off: “Joe, don’t interrupt me. Hear me out.”

The key is to make the crime seem more “moral” than it would otherwise appear. In a claim for false expenses, for example, the interrogator may suggest that everyone else was doing it: “Joe, it’s not as if you were doing something your colleagues weren’t doing too.”

Read more…

Nice allusion to corrupt MPs there.

If only we were seeing prosecutions of false expense claims. Even an investigation would do. But it’ll never happen, will it? Unlike, the young woman who was electronically tagged, given a 2 month curfew and made to pay massive court costs for the hideous crime of leaving her 15 week kitten alone for two days, MPs will never be interviewed or even interrogated, let alone prosecuted. As much as quite a few MPs would benefit from heaving their head flushed repeatedly down the toilet, the Metropolitan police, you’ll have been unsurprised to learn, announced earlier this week they’ve no intent to prosecute a single one, no matter how blatant their dishonesty.

It’s easy to explain this apparent imbalance; kittens are cute, therefore meanness to kittens is a heinous crime. Democracy isn’t fwuffy and you can’t rub its adorable ikkle belly, so stealing from the public purse isn’t a crime at all, let alone a heinous one.

But I digress. Back to the purported inadequacy in the trouser department or otherwise of the authoritarian plod. Somewhere on the internets somewhere in the mists of time is an anecdote that the smallest personal equipment in the world can be found in the the police showers. It’s not the only version of the urban myth; occasionally the story is from an emergency room nurse who sees police officers personal bits and can testify as to their miniscularity. The story’s details vary, the point being that authoritarian behaviour is motivated by a deep sense of inadequacy and a feeling of powerlessness brought on by having tiny genitals, although that theory stumbles more than a bit when it comes to authoritarian women cops.

Whether there’s any actual data to back up the small johnson theory, who knows. But it has that mysterious feeling of rightness about it. But to that I’d add two more tropes; first ‘men are all just boys really’ and secondly ‘some cops think they’re in a movie’ and for the latter I advance as evidence Hot Fuzz

Many little boys spend years running round a playground making ricochet noises, replicating shootouts and car chases. That kind of play’s what little boys are encouraged to do. Some never stop, but some grow up and get to do it for real, with state approval.

You only have to look at police toys; they do love their toys. There are acres of website full of nifty paramilitary police kit and gadgets for PCs to spend their pocket-money on. British PCs look like GI Joes in navy blue, carrying what looks like as much equipment on their belts as an infantryman in Iraq, with only the flak jacket, helmet and rifle are lacking to complete the resemblance. But I wouldn’t be at all surprised if those aren’t already on order from some supplier with a mate in ACPO or the Home Office.

It’s the playground all over again, only bigger, better and with the chance to act out all your revenge fantasies on people you dislike, like those you think are better endowed in some way or who have better toys than you. You get to imitate for real every day what you’ve seen on screen and since what you see is brutal paramilitary American policing, as interpreted and amplified by a Hollywood desperate to jack up ratings, then that’s what you imitate. Given this scenario waterboarding had to happen eventually.

This tv-powered approach to policing may be officially frowned upon by the higher echelons, but for all senior officers’ denials it’s tacitly encouraged when it’s useful to cow the populace. Jean Charles Menesez’ vicious, execution-style, extrajudicial murder, violent arrests of terror detainees, everyday, casual brutalisation of suspects and the gleefully harsh treatment of recent political protests are practical demonstrations that far from being rogues or bad apples bad cops are depressingly common enough to think it’s meant.

All this might lead a casual observer like me to think that some police officers – not all, I hasten to add before I feel a hand on my shoulder, though I’d posit there’s a fair few – are Peter Pan Plods, childish inadequates who joined the police to get power over others, protofascists who get their notions of law, justice and policing from Hollywood and Rupert Murdoch. Do they also have tiny todgers? It’s all entirely unscientific and based on no data at all, but I’m convinced.

Never Give A Dialysis Patient an AK-47

ak47

I’d better warn you, I’m in a very, very bad mood this morning; it’s a bloody good job I don’t have access to weapons.

I had hoped that after the fiasco that was yesterday this morning would be better. Yesterday was awful; first the hospital car didn’t turn up at all for my cardiologyappointment/dialysis session and I had to make my own way via bus, ferry and tram across town from North to South Amsterdam and the hospital. Despite Amsterdam’s excellent public transport it’s still an hour’s tiring slog away.

I was particularly anxious to get there on time, because the cardiology tests are the only results I’m waiting for to get the go-ahead from the surgeon and a tentative date for a kidney transplant at the end of the summer. Not crucially important or anything, oh no. I was already late for an appointment I’d already had to rearrange three times over the past three months because of taxi non-appearance or ridiculous lateness.

I ‘d been so worried about the taxi company’s (ZCN Vervoerscentrale Rotterdam since you ask) previous unreliability I actually called them 30 minutes before the cab was due to check that transport was in fact arranged. Although I’d got the nurses to book it, I didn’t trust the taxi people one bit based on their dire past performance. I was right not to.

The dispatcher said yes, it’s all booked for 12.30 to be at the hospital by 1.20, geen probleme, the taxi’s on it’s way. Except it wasn’t.

12.30 came and went… then 12.40… then 12 .45… I’m getting panicky, it’s 45 minutes across town through mad afternoon traffic. Where the hell is this taxi? They’re cutting it more than a bit fine… I rang the dispatcher again to see what was happening. After waiting another 5 minutes through the ridiculous automated phone menu I’m told ‘What taxi? It’s not on my list. I know nothing.’

But I checked with you 45 minutes ago! You said it was booked! You lied! ‘It’s not on my list. I know nothing. Bye!’

I thought I had become accustomed and had learned to deal philosophically with crappy Dutch employees who can’t do their jobs competently, who can never be fired and know it, and who have no inkling or even the faintest glimmer of understanding even the concept of customer service. I’ve grown used to the ‘Customers? Who they? We run this company for us employees’ state of mind that’s so prevalent in Dutch business and public services. But flat-out, blatant lies have thankfully been relatively rare so far.

The reason I get so steamed is that the taxi service’s constant unreliability adds around 2 hours unnecessary transport time to each end of an already onerous 4 hour dialysis session three times a week. That doesn’t do a lot for my equanimity. It also means I can’t do anything at all on a dialysis day, even though it’s only a half day, because I can’t plan for their unreliability. It’s not as though it’s free, either.

I’d had more than enough of bloody, ass-covering Dutch employees at this point. You’re lying to me now? I don’t think so. I rang back and gave the dispatcher a full-bore blast of the concentrated bile that’s been building up in my roiling gut for months, as I’ve stood fuming in the rain outside the hospital, waiting hopelessly over and over again for my missing taxi home.

It felt good. But it didn’t get me my taxi.

I got there, in the end, but very tired and very late. By the time I got out of cardiology (the usual dull, unsmiling, mechanical Dutch experience these things usually are) it was dialysis time. I’d had nothing to eat all day and no time for even a coffee beforehand. Pissed off, knackered, hungry and with only a pack of fruit pastilles for sustenance, I felt the session would never end.

It wasn’t helped by the fact I’d been assigned the most annoying nurse, the one who thinks it’s her life’s work to to teach the foreigner Dutch even though I’ve asked her not to, and who refuses to communicate in English even though she’s perfectly able. It wasn’t helped either by the unnamed idiot who kept ringing my mobile, across the room in my jacket pocket, which I couldn’t reach because of being tethered to the machine by the big IV line in my jugular.

Argh! Even if I could’ve answered the damned thing it would have been pointless: anyone likely to ring me on my mobile should know by now that there’s no mobile phone coverage in the dialysis department. Who the hell was it calling?

My mood hadn’t improved by the time dialysis finished. When I finally got home, exhausted, pissed off, very hungry and with only a cold ham sandwich on crappy, dry Dutch bread to look forward to for dinner, I found that, as is depressingly usual when interesting bloggable stuff happens, not long after I set off for the hospital yesterday yet another cabinet minister had resigned and I was yet again elsewhere, out of internet and radio range.

Some days you just want to kick something.

I’d hoped that this morning would’ve been better but I got up to hear that racist prick Geert ‘Needs his roots done’ Wilders on the radio, crowing that he’s made big gains in the EU elections and now the housepainters who’re doing the outside of our houses are in and out to get through to the rear without knocking or even so much as a bye-your-leave.

I know I agreed with the foreman yesterday morning that they could come through to get access today, but I had no idea it would mean a constant stream of workmen in painty boots through my living room and kitchen from 7.30 am till lunchtime who’d keep leaving the inside door open, even though I’ve asked them several times to close it in case one of the cats (who’ve never really been in the Big Outside) were to get out and get themselves run over.

It really is a good job I have no weapons to hand. If one of the cats got out or I got any more pissed off, I think I’d go postal.

What If Gordon Won’t Go?

castlereagh_death1

I have cardiology appointments and a dialysis session for the rest of the day and no access to wifi so no blogging from me till much later, if at all and anyhow the media, especially the BBC, seem to have cold feet and have backed off Gordon Brown.

For the moment only. Nick Brown, PM’s top henchperson and Labour chief whip, must surely be running out of nasty little journalistic secrets by now. It won’t be long before the hounds start baying again.

It also can’t be long before Gordon has another phone-throwing tantrum or does himself or someone else a mischief. Even the loyalists might jump if he’s visibly cracking up. But would they? The line from no 10 this morning is that he’ll “have to be carried out of No. 10 in a box”.

It wouldn’t be the first story of ministerial madness in British constitutional history: this morning I’ve been reading about the early 19th century war minister, the notorious Viscount Castlereagh, of whom Byron quipped:

” Posterity will ne’er survey
a Nobler grave than this:
Here lie the bones of Castlereagh:
Stop, traveller, and piss!

The man who ordered the Peterloo massacre suffered from a form of severe paranoia that first led him to challenge the then Foreign Secretary George Canning to a disastrous duel and eventually to cut his own throat in despair.

But Lord Castlereagh wasn’t a serving PM, only a minister. There was no constitutional crisis as such. That got me wondering – what is the precedent should a British PM become sectionable while in office? Who makes the call? The Cabinet? Parliament? What about the Queen? What if he were to refuse to even see a doctor? What should happen then – should psychiatrists be sent to No. 10 to forcibly examine a Prime Minister?

A patient can be sectioned if they are perceived to be a threat to themselves or other people. Generally, a patient can only be sectioned if two doctors and a social worker or a close relative of the patient believe it is necessary. One of these doctors is usually a psychiatrist. The other is often a doctor who knows the patient well. However, in an emergency one doctor’s recommendation may be sufficient. An approved social worker also has to be involved in the assessment, and has to agree that being sectioned is the best course of action for that patient. The social worker then makes the application for a place in secure accommodation for the patient.

What if Brown were to refuse to leave office at all? The convention is that a PM can hang on for up to 15 months after a general election would have been due, but it’s only a convention and he’s always got the Civil Contingencies Act, which allows the government of the day to declare an emergency – it decides exactly what an emergency is – and to suspend democracy, override normal checks and balances and all local democracy – to rule by fiat, essentially – as the nuclear option. What could be done against that?

It’s an interesting constitutional problem and one I need to do a lot more reading about.