Decimus Iunius Iuvenalis, known in English as Juvenal, was a Roman poet active in the late 1st and early 2nd century AD. He more or less invented Satire. We found, dug up and resurrected his corpse. He now quietly in St Neot, as a Zombie, and only writes for us
Facebook this weekend is alive with local folk credulously circulating shocking sounding reports of the jailing for 32 years of Falmouth goon Peter Petrauske and previously convicted pederast Jack Kemp, in the sort of ‘abuse’ case that has enough bells and whistles to make it worth tens of thousands to proven victims in compensation payments, and probably at least five thousand pounds apiece, if not much more, for a well-syndicated, titillating enough womens magazine and tabloid exclusive.
It’s a bizarre and troubling experience for anyone who dimly remembers an open and democratic system of justice operating in this country to watch a protective screen erected around a witness box, so that nobody knows, or is allowed, on force of prison, to tell anyone else, the identity of a witness giving testimony that can lead to men – and it invariably is men – being jailed for the rest of their natural lives.
But that is the unnerving scene that unfolds daily at Truro Crown Court in Cornwall, a court as corrupt and rotten as any in this increasingly oppressive country.
To watch it happen in a case in which two elderly men – one of whoms previous criminal records were read out for all the public and jury to hold in blatant prejudice against him (something which lawyers would have thought a measure possible only in some tinpot backwater before that warmongering bastard Tony Blair got into office) – struggle in vain to disprove fantastical crimes alleged to have taken place almost half a Century ago – would be funny, if it wasn’t so sickening, and terrifying.
Nobody really goes to court any more in Britain. Reporters don’t, because papers aren’t interested in taking the courts on. They just get sent up in a tewwible tewwible hurry from an undermanned office to hoover up the official line from a policeman after a conviction. People don’t, unless they’re noobs, who miss watching legal dramas on ITV. No: ‘justice’ in Britain today is just a place you hope you don’t wind up, quaking in your boots, and praying the system will somehow forget all about you, and so end the whole surreal nightmare.
Of course there’s still a few criminals who do the rounds. They smash people’s faces in, they drink and they get high, every now and again they steal your iPhone. And the few remaining police who aren’t domestic violence or press liason officers do a generally brave and good job of nicking them. And then – they go to Truro Crown Court, where the hard-line feminist probation officer, who couldn’t give a damn about the underclass or the unprotected, hard working people in it who really suffer from the criminality of these idiots and bullies, applies the prehistoric Marxist niceties of her 1960s humanities degree to Peter Bread and Donna Kebab, schooled in wily excuses from their first day of truancy, and decides what these poor undernourished Dickensian fantasies she’s imagining most need is to go on a re-habilitation course, set up at vast expense by her many friends and relatives in the exponentially expanding legal affiliate world of pure and unadulterated bullshit – sorry – counselling.
Mainly though, the business of Truro Crown Court consists of social workers, shyster-lawyers, and unaccountable ‘experts’ depriving people who shouldn’t be in court at all of their family life, in the chillingly named, and unconstitutionally secret ‘family division’.
More and more, everything that goes on in this supposed system of open justice is a big secret, starting with the blatant and inexcusable secrecy veiling every act within the ‘family’ assizes, but increasingly leaking out like a bad smell to cloud the fair principles that in the past were applied to open, criminal trials, with witness screens, routine reporting injunctions, and the like.
The trial of Petrauske and Kemp was just such an event, and its bizarre outcome should chill the blood not only of anyone who cares about the well-being of their fellow man, but who cares about their own liberty.
Now that the verdict’s in, the press – and of course the feminist goons who run the local press will positively revel in their constraints – are legally bound to report the two defendants guilt, and bemoan their victims violated innocence.
So let’s take a break from reality to enter a completely fictional scenario in which none of those people depicted have any relation to any persons either living or dead.
Ready? Good. So just remember, for a moment here we’re making like all his former friends in the little town of Falmouth will, and forgetting Peter Petrauske ever existed. Here goes.
Six pm. Road to Nowhere, the Anony Mous Estate. Two friends, let’s say, Donna’s brother Hummus Kebab and his fiance and childhood sweetheart Labia, are watching television. They have a combined IQ of around 12. They’re either unemployed or low-waged, and they live in a poky little house, that costs a fortune, thanks to spiralling utilities costs engineered by corporations indebted to international banks governed by state reserves whose primary investment is in futures – human futures: as in, your taxes. Now, only the banks and the state have power in this equation. And neither have any cause to wish to protect delicate notions such as public justice, good education, or individual freedom. All they’ve got to do is stay on top of a system in which they take everyone’s money and power and everyone’s attention is distracted.
Right now in number Zero on the Road to Nowhere Hummus and Labia’s attention is distracted. They’re glued to ‘Panorama: Jimmy Savile – What the BBC Knew’. Labia can barely watch. It contains upsetting scenes. Hummus is incandescent. ‘Nonce’ he shouts every now and again at the screen, like a party member at the two minutes Hate. Meanwhile the information flashing hypnotically in rapid-fire cuts before them both is at once contrasting and vague. Claims of a pervy old man feeling up a teenage girl by holding her too tight around the waist on camera mix freely with allegations of rape. Labia and Hummus are confused, while Hummus, he’s not sure why, feels a need to dispel the sordid subject matter of the programme before he and Labia go to their own bed, announcing that if Jimmy Savile had touched up his girlfriend or daughter he’d have kicked his head in.
The next day at Sure Start Labia and her sister-in-law to be are playing with little Lamb and Shofti, closely supervised by Nik O’fficious, the friendly playground helper. Overriding even the state-of-play in the state soap operas as the topic of gossip for the day is that devastating program about that weirdo Jimmy Savile that simply nobody could watch it was so upsetting. Knowledge and authority on the subject of ‘abuse’ are the currency of the conversation and, as the little mites in one corner announce that their Dad is taller than their friends Dad because he is as tall as a mountain – no child present having the vaguest idea of what their father looks like of course – over the coffee and chocolate the adults compete for who has the most understanding and sympathy for ‘victims of abuse’. Nik lays down the opening hand saying ‘she’s worked with them and when you hear their stories….’, which sets Donna and Labia immediately to: Donna had a friend whose boyfriends uncle tried to get off with her and she was only 15 at which a secretly furious Labia plays her Trump card and, unable to conjure up any tales in the heat of the moment, simply says vaguely she ‘knows all about’ those poor girls suffering, at which point lights shine in Ms O’fficious’s eyes as clearly as roast canaries in Sylvester the Cats. On and on it goes, and as the Gods of private banking and state corporatism look down from on high like Laurence Olivier and Maggie Smith in Harry Hamlin’s Clash of the Titans, they reflect on just how clever their celebrity paedophilia gambit is proving to be: for Jimmy Savile was the people’s champion – the nicest man on earth – a friend to the little children – but – at the end of the day – weird, because he wasn’t married – and now the nappy-headed single mothers don’t just suspect any man of being a child-raping bogeyman – they suspect every man, especially the nice ones, and particularly the weird ones, but most of all, – absolutely all of them bar none, because if Jimmy Savile is a rapist molester then it ‘just goes to show’, all men are – just like the feminist establishment have been telling them all along. QED. ‘I have to admit’ Zeus booms to Hera, ‘that radical feminism idea of yours is really working out rather nicely.’ ‘Send Mark Thompson to the New York Times – the boy done well.’
Back down on earth poor old Hummus and Labia are subjected to an unending barrage of paedophile news – and all at a time when they can barely concentrate on mustering the cash to pay their TV license! Hummus, desperate to distance himself from the constant attack on his masculinity from the TV, Radio and newspapers, decides Mr Weird at number nothingty-nought might need to be sorted out unless he stays away from the communal playground he doesn’t care if Labia says he can’t take the law into his own hands he f***ing will and all and finally Labia, fishing around to distract her intendeds attention from the fact that she’s pregnant not by him but his brother, finally ‘remembers’ in bed one night about the ‘stuff that happened to her’ when she was little and her Mum was living with that weird bloke. Hummus knew it all along and falls hook line and sinker into his latest faux-chivalrous role as noble protector of his abused wifelet and brothers child and, swelled with a sense of importance as fake as their his and hers Beckham fragrance and aftershaves, Labia marches back to Sure Start armed with her all-conquering victim status while Hummus sets to work replacing tyres with a newly hardened stare for every unmarried male customer over 35. His mates find out and her mates and state guardians at the nursery find out, Hummus stumbles across a copy of the Daily Mail in the garage waiting room opened at a page reading ‘Savile victims could be due for 6million in compensation’ and pretty soon, inevitably in a small town, the police get to ‘find out’.
By now a fantastical jigsaw of previously unconnected pieces is miraculously falling into place. A perfectly honest and well-meaning, if ambitious, police officer, let’s call him Officer Dibble, hears through social services who heard through Sure Start who heard through the coffee and Twix gossip of Nik O’fficial, that a local girl is being abused by a paedophile. An inspector calls and when it turns out it’s historical abuse – all the better: why just look at the profile of the officer in the Savile enquiry, he doesn’t look half as brave and upright as Dibble would on TV. Also – less paperwork – no evidence. Labia, of course, isn’t that dim that her animal instinct for survival hasn’t planted her childhood fantasy firmly in reality. She is willingly dim enough that she now believes the whole story herself, and as she gives out the names of old schoolpals who remember ‘all that weird stuff’ when they were little too, joins her police inquisitors on a genuine crusade to nail the Jimmy Savile of Nowhere Town.
Now Officer Dibble has a nice little list of various names making varying claims about a local eccentric. All that remains is to knock on wickety-witch’s door. Half way to the job, Dibble reflects: ‘Surely not’, he thinks, ‘that harmless old buffoon?’. But no – he checks himself. ‘After all – if Jimmy Savile, host of Jim’ll Fix It, hero of Stoke Mandeville, can be a child molester…….’ And on he trots.
Enter Dave Broom, lonely, single, ageing, rune enthusiast. Dave’s so old he can barely pass water. When Dibble calls, Dave’s in his tiny garden, praying to Neptune to have mercy on his prostate. When the local policeman invites himself in old Dave’s almost glad of the company. Until he’s suddenly thrown into a mind-numbing Kafka-esque nightmare of dizzying proportions. Like a TV show or something.
When the door swings shut behind his official visitor, Dave picks up the phone to his old pal Wendy the witch in a daze, and explains what has happened as much to convince himself as to let her know. ‘That’s ridiculous’ she snorts. ‘I’ll tell them.’ And so she does. As do Seascape and Butterfly, all old handmaidens from back in the day. ‘Don’t you worry Dave’, they repeatedly tell him. ‘They can’t do anything because you didn’t do anything.’
But they can. And now Seascape and friends are having to make sworn statements. Dibble’s hit gold as a known pervert’s name is dropped in it by the residents of the Anony Mous estate and it’s all starting to add up. Before old Dave knows what’s happening, he’s in the dock looking all of his 83 years and shoulder to shoulder with a man called Perv Grope he can’t remember from anywhere.
In front of him, there’s a judge. To the left, a jury. And further to the right, a large protective screen, out of which, in a succession of plaintive voices, pours a sordid story he’s hearing for the first time. It’s loosely based on his own very difficult to explain eccentric reality as a believer in the sacred powers of Mother Earth, but names not only him as a demonic rapist, but every bad or weird guy known to the popular psyche from Darth Vader to Satan himself.
Dave shambles into the dock and tells twelve men and women good and true that he’s a witch. Goodbye Dave.
The End. And lest we forget – this story and all the characters in it are of course fictitious. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental. And what about that Pete Petrauske eh? Evil pervert. And David Cameron. Such a great leader. Aren’t the police helpful in custody disputes? I do like the layout of Truro town centre.
Let’s be honest: we’re in a real stinking mess in this country, and our society has been so dissipated that it’s going to take a massive shock to its system to ever get us out of it.
Britain is a joyless fascist shithole, in which a tyranny of women – that’s the inspirational gender that handed out white feathers to pacifists in the First World War, kissed Hitler, and now ask for, and are granted exemption from, child murder, have created an almost exclusively fictional world of male sex crime for which only blokes can be prosecuted.
Rape cases are now held on the basis that the accused is guilty until proven innocent. ‘Domestic Violence’ statistics are cooked up from laughable research that a GCSE Maths Student would fail with and men accused of it go to ‘special’ courts without juries press or burden of proof – otherwise known as kangaroo courts. Meanwhile, in the home, there’s a universally acknowledged epidemic of male suicide – or to name it more accurately – forced suicide, of the sort induced by the East German Stasi in groups they chose to persecute – and in the workplace – well there isn’t one, to speak of. Every year the private sector shrinks, and every year the public sector, and its militant wing of social services and the ‘family’ court, gets bigger and bigger, with recruitment and promotion geared exclusively to those groups deemed by social scientists – in flagrant disregard for all the evidence – to be disadvantaged: ie – women. Women triumphing over patriachal adversity just as convincingly and justly as say, the Aryan rose to triumph over despotic Zionism in 1933. Ethnic minorities get a fleeting look-in but only generally in specific areas in which – like women across the country – they form an overwhelming majority already, and for the main part, the effect is less positive in promoting target groups as negative in demoting, marginalising and oppressing others.
Also exactly as in the best known despotic state to draw parallels from, (the anti-Semitic Nazi state), the incoming ruling class take everyone’s attention off the ball by hiding the truth in plain view – they blame the victim. That way, everyone’s looking at the victim constantly, convinced he’s the villain of the piece, and vice versa, making the truth profoundly obscure to any but the most tangential mind. It’s the meanest, simplest, grubbiest device in the book. Children do it. How many times have you seen an angry infant belt their sibling while their mothers back’s turned and then cry ‘She hit me!’ Well – that’s you that is. That’s Mum – suckered by the wiliest child with the most innocent face. That’s you, pointing at Jimmy Savile – who’s dead by the way – and screaming ‘Nonce!’ and ‘Beast!’ before picking up the phone to the domestic violence hotline because you heard your neighbours shouting at one another so that the police can invite social services round to tear their children away from them and sell them to a wholly inappropriate LGBT couple through the local council website. That’s you, you dribbling, mass media-concussed retard, no longer capable of thinking for yourself beyond how you’re dutifully going to pay your next council tax bill.
What has become of us? In Britain – but especially, and perhaps most tragically, in Cornwall.
There was a time the Cornish marched on the English establishment armed to the teeth and damn near won.
There was a time in living memory when a police officer walking down the main street of Camborne would be blanked – period – by every citizen of the town.
It wasn’t because the people of Camborne had no decency or standards: it was because nobody in that rich, self-reliant mining community wanted some uniformed plonker telling them how to behave.
All along the south Cornish coast the churchyards boast proud inscriptions to the memory of smugglers – men shot down by customs, in abject local defiance of authority.
How is it that we’ve slid from being a proud community of self-policing pirates and frontiersmen, with strong, extended, independent families, to a spineless jelly-like mass of imbecilic officials, trembling manginas and strident, gossiping harridans?
Today towns like Penryn and Falmouth are more likely to house broken-backed informers, drooling down the DSS hotline about their neighbours new car, or on to social services about the funny looking man in number 45, than spirited rebels who’d spit in the eye of anyone telling them what to do or how to do it.
Well, any number of reasons.
First there’s the so-called ‘media’.
Many of us have spent the greater part of our free lives – and crucially our childhoods – voluntarily shut up in little cubicles, staring at flashing words and pictures that print onto our minds whatever abject nonsense the authorities wish us to believe.
So thanks to broadcasting, state authority no longer needs to chase us around with guns or beat us up in cells. It’s inside us. It’s been broadcast there.
Second, there’s the welfare state – schools, the NHS, the police, then local councils and a whole host of associated evils.
The State has waged war on individual freedom ever since 1945, to the point where we now have none.
This assault on our dignity and liberty has been relentless.
Tories like to tell us it lapsed under Thatcher – but in fact the financial conditions just got worse, while our political slavery became more subtle – and ingrained.
Labour no longer exist. There is no working class party. Labour politicians are middle class posers, living out a University fantasy, and legislating a Fabian Hell.
The Lib Dems meanwhile, as they’ve shown in the Coalition, have no national brain. They’re just a limp-dicked, saggy breasted assembly of left-leaning constituency MPs.
Third, and worst of all, has been the degradation and corruption of the rule of law.
The jurists who laid the foundations of our democratic system of jury law and responsible policing would most probably blow up the Old Bailey if they could see the pathetic witch-hunting wreck that has become of the police and the courts today.
Our supposedly democratic system of police and courts has far, far exceeded the power and social control enjoyed by the aforementioned East German Stasi.
If you think that’s melodramatic, you probably didn’t know that there was no terror state in the GDR.
Virtually no-one was ever physically tortured. The overwhelming majority of police informers were willing volunteers. And many, many people supported the goals of the socialist state.
The best way to secure stable state control, was not through violence, but psychological manipulation, and weight of numbers.
The Stasi were a force of police, just like any other. There were around 100,000 of them. Veterans estimate they filed information from 500,000 full time informers, or as many as 2.5million, if you include occasional snoops.
Commonly, neighbours would report neighbours. Famously, wives would report husbands, and vice versa. Up to thirty per-cent of informers were children.
And whilst no threats were usually necessary, the most frequent fallback used by the secret police to coerce unwilling citizens into giving the names of anti-social elements, would be the threat that their children would be taken into state care.
No-one really knew what the Stasi did and the press and public would get no reply if they ever dared to ask.
Meanwhile all the information this force of social engineers accrued went into enormous files, indexing almost every citizen of the state, containing information that could be used to assist them, or be used against them, at will.
Sound familiar? No?
Come off it. We all know that the powers the Stasi enjoyed in Germany are different only in era and method to the powers enjoyed by British Social Services.
But perhaps you think the wonderful ‘health’ profession would never behave like an East German police force.
Try opposing them, and you’ll soon find out how these modern-day secret policemen and women do things.
Ask journalist Brian Morgan. Morgan launched a brave campaign to expose the evildoings of charlatan Dr David Southall – a Social Services ‘expert’.
Southall, using the total power afforded him in the secret ‘family court’s, accused men and women of murder and infanticide for the sake of it, and many were convicted.
This ‘expert’ made his decisions on a whim, or out of spite – and famously once accused a man of murder on the basis of watching a TV programme on his case.
Thanks to Morgan, Southall was eventually struck off.
But not before staff at the NHS – never named, but Southall was naturally suspected – contrived to secretly ruin Morgan by messing with his ‘file’,
When Morgan challenged Southall, the false information that two of Morgan’s children had been taken into care mysteriously appeared on official records.
These lies, lent fraudulent authority, were leaked to other journalists and led to Morgan being discredited.
And it was only because an official leaked the files to Morgan himself – that the crime – an as yet unprosecuted crime – was ever exposed.
So the question is this: Brian Morgan is a professional, well-connected, relatively high profile journalist. Yet only by fluke, and then only through his own expertise, was he ever able to take on and expose the charlatans who hatched this little secret police style smear campaign against him.
So how many innocent, powerless, unskilled, unprofessional people have been similarly mistreated and we’ve never got to hear about it?
How amazing it is – given that social workers by choice target the most vulnerable and marginalised in society – that we hear of these scandals at all?
What would happen if – as eventually happened with the Stasi files (and only then after citizens stormed the headquarters) – Britain’s Social Services ‘case histories’ were opened to the people they named?
Of course, you can hear that Common Purpose fascist Brian Leveson and the rest of the terrified establishment and their informers bleating about privacy already.
But that’s the same argument 100,000 ex-Stasi and their 2.5million informers made after the fall of the Berlin Wall. Opening the files was no unanimous, joyous decision.
Yet does anyone in the UK believe it would have been right to keep those files closed to spare the blushes of those involved?
Of course not. And that same obvious right of the citizen applies to British Social Services. They have a far weaker argument for secrecy than did the German Stasi.
After all, you couldn’t get much more personal than a Stasi file. They stuck cameras in people’s bedrooms. Much like Social Services, they were obsessed with the most private aspects of their targets lives.
The fact is, only if social services ‘oh-so-sensitive we couldn’t possibly tell you what we’ve been writing about you all’ files are opened to the public can we ever emerge from the dark era of domestic human rights abuses we are living in.
And the first step towards that – is the opening to the press and public – the full opening, no false names or protective screens to be tolerated – of the so-called ‘family courts’.
Once that happens – all the dominos fall. The psychotic ethic of state officials deciding the ‘interest of the child’ above the parents wishes – a practise instituted, and a phrase first coined, in the original ‘family’ courts that were established by Adolf Hitler – is lanced back into the dustbin of history. The fascistic legislation that censors our court proceedings, perverts the democratic judicial process and leads to daily outrages against innocent citizens, then by association must be repealed. And that leaves the people who accuse old men of retrospective sex crimes reduced to those who know they have nothing to fear because unlike their aggressors, they have done nothing wrong.
All anonymity, all censorship, and all secrecy must be removed from all court proceedings in this country for any number of reasons: but here are just a few.
Firstly, we are not, in Cornwall or in Britain, such heartless, unsophisticated people that the victim of a rape or sex assault, whether as a child or adult, would face any stigma at all for publicly naming and helping to convict their attacker. Secondly, all of the people who matter to such accusers – family and friends – inevitably know all about it anyway. Thirdly, and most convincingly, we all know that given the current zeitgeist for the victim, far from being picked on, anyone who made such a public claim is in fact far more likely to be feted and congratulated. But most importantly of all – when we grant anonymity to the accusers in criminal trials, we completely undermine every sound principle of democratic law and allow legislation that perverts the course of justice. And when we offer both anonymity and large cash payouts, we create an epidemic of false allegations, and make that injustice endemic. So the bogus ‘protection’ argument that twists a fair and efficient system into a corrupt and dangerous one by allowing anyone who makes such ruinous claims to hide behind total anonymity and claim large cash prizes on conviction – whilst the accused, if proven innocent, is assured of official humiliation and public lynching, is a travesty not worthy of the title Medieval.
The Medieval Age was a time of relative tolerance, academic enlightment and artistic creativity.
We’re in the Dark Ages.