Just after Christmas this year I wrote the draft of a play because I was asked to but now is not  required.  It is a semi-fictitious account of what was going on at St Bede’s College in the period I was there 1957-1963.  It was written as a one woman show and is a draft version, the director and producer did not even read it, so I will not waste the effort I put into the original writing.  I will tell it in four  instalments and I would like you the reader to criticize or remark on the Text.  The abuse mentioned is real and does not tell the whole of the story, some of the characters are fictionalised, some are not.  The play is called the Music Teacher.

THE MUSIC TEACHER – PART 1

It is the end of the Summer term of 1960, Miss Julie Kirk is sitting at the piano in the Practice Room, next door to the Music Room in St Bede’s College in Manchester.  In the Music Room Mr Gordon Frost, the Head of Music, is taking the Senior Choir through its paces with a rousing version of Faith of Our Father’s. (she goes over and closes the adjoining door the singing tails off)

(She goes back to the stool and starts to address the audience)

I have been very lucky really, I had a lovely childhood as an only child and an even better youthful life and up to now I have thoroughly enjoyed myself, although always living a tempered existence and never letting my talents get the better of the spiritual me.

I was born into a devout Catholic family in Alkrington, a district of North Manchester between Blackley and Middleton on the Rochdale Road out of Manchester.  If you were going to be born into grandeur in North Manchester, Alkrington was the place for genesis and Mainway where we lived was the finest boulevard in Alkrington.

My mother, Mrs Evelyn Kirk, was the music teacher at Notre Dame High School for Girls on Cheetham Hill.  The school was staffed in the main by the Sisters Of Notre Dame of Namur, a teaching order of nuns that had originated in southern Belgium but who like a lot of religious teaching orders in the 19^th century had sent a delegation of nuns over to Manchester and other northern towns to cater for the education of the children of the massive influx of Irish people who had emigrated to England to escape the famine at home.

My father was a consultant surgeon of ear, nose and throat at Crumpsall Hospital, both venues within easy striking distance of our house which was an elegant five bedroomed detached, I suppose, Edwardian style house.  One of its attributes being a downstairs toilet, this downstairs loo was always a talking point with my friends at school and they often came round to try out the facility.

We were all from North Manchester, herded together by our religion, but as you came out of town north along Rochdale Road, you ran the whole gamut of financial life.  From the pitifully poor in Collyhurst and Harpurhey which were jungles of back to back houses waiting for the demolition man and inhabited by the poor souls who kept Manchester’s industrial wheels turning in the post war boom and who were hoping to move into the new high rise blocks mooted for Collyhurst and the concrete deserts being built in Langley on moorland overlooking Middleton.  The road continued through the improving Blackley village and the pre-war council estates of Higher Blackley, but once Victoria Avenue was crossed, you entered a country idyll of farmer’s fields and small woods, greenery everywhere and scattered little enclaves of modern houses.  Alkrington was built to suit the management of Cottonopolis as Manchester was known and our downstairs toilet was a place of pilgrimage.  Most of my friends who visited, lovely girls all, had no toilet to boast of, only a shared privy with half the street.  We were all as I said united by our religion, our school, Notre Dame High School for Girls on Bignor Street on Cheetham Hill and our downstairs toilet.  First on the left as you entered the house by our front door.

Not only was I lucky, I was talented as well.  My mother’s genes had come down to me and it seems that my musical abilities were beyond the comprehension of most.  My mother started teaching me piano when I was six, on that lovely John Broadwood Baby Grand piano that my father had bought my mother on their fifth wedding anniversary in the summer of 1939, when the world was still in a shaky peace and I was three year old.  I grew up to the sound and feel of this instrument, it was like an elder sister to me.  Unfortunately (pointing at the upright she was sitting at) the College does not consider timbre a must in their piano and as long as it is tuned the sound does not matter.

After O Levels I went into the Sixth Form our numbers greatly decreased and while studying English, French, History and Music for A Level, my mother sent me for extracurricular lessons at the Northern School of Music.  Here I was amongst equals and I loved it.  The piano was by now not my only instrument, I loved the organ which I played at church every Sunday and on Feast Days.  I also loved the piano accordion and I was top hole on the tenor saxophone.  I seemed to have the ability to pick up a new instrument and within a week I had mastered the basics.

My time in the sixth form led to a load of new experiences, I was often away playing in concerts for young musicians during which the boys and girls thing came into play.  In the younger school we were shepherded by the head mistress and mother superior, Sister Mary of the Dolours, men or boys did not enter its sphere of thought, although one or two girls in the fifth year came up with some hair raising adventures that they had had with the local lads.  It was hard to believe a lot of it but in sixth form those hair raising tales became the norm and although excited initially, I soon grew to be very, very careful of young men.

Triumphant in my A Levels I graduated to the Northern School Of Music to study piano and organ; so proficient was I on the saxophone that I was co-opted onto a traditional jazz band some of the students had started, to earn spending money, playing in pubs and at clubs round Manchester.  We were good, excellent in fact, as good as Humph Lyttleton’s band but we were to conservative, we could not push ourselves, to bound up in the classical style but I learned a lot.

At the end of my fourth year at the Northern School I heard I had won the Charles Halle prize for piano excellence and was invited along to do solo performances at various concerts which paid fees but these concert fees were never enough to pay all my bills, so I started looking around for full time work with a musical theme.  I was told that St Bede’s College was looking for an assistant music teacher to help out the veteran teacher Mr Gordon Frost, a man with a great history and name in music circles in Manchester.  I wrote to the Rector, Monsignor Duggan, who was as much part of the furniture of the College as Mr Gordon Frost.

St Bede’s was a prestigious Catholic school staffed by priests and male lay teachers and its main job seemed to be turning out priests, accountants and lawyers for the burgeoning Catholic population of Manchester and the Diocese of Salford.  I by this time had slipped a few degrees in the fervency I had for the Church but I was still a fairly convincing practicing Catholic.  Mr Frost interviewed me, a charming gentleman of the old school with a high pitched squeaky voice, always in cap and gown, with a black morning coat and pinstriped trousers, white shirt and black tie.  He told me the drill, initially I was to train the Junior Choir, teach certain classes in the lower school in music appreciation, help out where I could in the music department and take certain talented boys for tuition in the piano mainly outside of normal school hours.  The time table would not have suited some but it was ideal for me as it allowed me to take up one or two other extracurricular activities.  The money offered was not as much as I had expected but I took the post knowing well that Mr Frost would be retiring shortly and I knew it would launch me on the musical career I so wanted.  I never saw the Rector, Monsignor Duggan, and I was told by Mr Frost that as I was the only lady on the staff, there was no ladies toilets but if the need arose, to go and see the nuns. There was a team at the school who cooked for the staff and cleaned and polished the priest’s quarters.  Oh I wished that I could bring my downstairs toilet with me instead of having to find a nun when things became critical.

THE MUSIC TEACHER – PART 2

Anyway the upshot was that I started at Bede’s on 9^th September 1959 at the beginning of the Christmas term.  The week before, I had left the family home for good so that I could concentrate on what was going to be my new life.  Travelling between Alkrington and St Bede’s College was too tiresome what with two buses and a walk in between adding at least two and half hours on to every working day.  I rented a bed sitting room in a large Victorian house on Alness Road, just down  from the College in “leafy Whalley Range”, from an old lady who had set an advertisement in the Manchester Evening News.  It had a shared bathroom and toilet and my room besides having a bed of unknown vintage, had a small table and chair and an easy chair, a cupboard and a gas ring and a small gas fire to keep me warm, it was sparse but it would do until I was established.  Daddy helped me move in.  His only advice was “watch yourself at night, Julia”, he didn’t expand but I soon learnt that the streets and flats in the area catered more for the women of the night rather than the woman of the day like me.  There was constant passing traffic and men of all nationalities walking the streets and clunking up the stairs and enquiring as to my business.  It was a little scary but these women realised I was not in opposition and tended to watch out for me.  These women of the night seemed to be women of the day as well, as the banging of doors and the creak of the stairs never ceased but I promised myself that this sojourn was of only short existence, I had my eyes fixed on a modern block of flats they were building near the playing fields, with a living room, kitchen, bedroom and bathroom, a kind of luxury I was used to.

At once, as you entered St. Bede’s by its playground entrance on Alness Road, you knew you were in somewhere special, with the recently completed Beck building on the right, the 1930s Henshaw building on your left towering over the tennis courts, the main buildings in their Victorian splendour beckoning you in and the remarkable and vast covered playground where the boys played football, cricket and basketball whatever the weather.

That day I was up on the stage in the Main Assembly Hall feeling slightly uneasy in my cap and gown, surrounded by twenty or thirty older lay men and the same number of priests, all smelling of cigarettes and the faint odour of the unwashed, looking out at the serried ranks of over 600 boys, feeling as well rather queasy in this multi-coloured company, as the only woman.  Seated in front of us was the Rector, the magisterial Monsignor Thomas Duggan and his grimacing Headmaster or Prefect of Studies as Monsignor Duggan liked to call him, Fr Geoffrey Burke, both of whom I had passed on the Main Staircase earlier on and after a brief curtsey from me, they had passed by without acknowledgement, perhaps a faint curl from Fr Burkes upper lip was the only recognition.  The Prefect of Discipline, Fr John Rigby, read out the results of the previous year’s summer exams, with each class standing up as their Form was called out and each boy in order of position sitting down, so that those with poor results stood to the end until finally sitting as their name was ignominiously read out.  I thought that rather cruel and unnecessary.  However it was not for me to try and change the tried and tested.  After each class roll call, the boys trooped off to their form room and the names of the assembled new first year boys read out with the name of the Upper Third Class to which they had been allocated.  All that was left was the first year 6^th Form, The Lower Sixth.  These were boys who had taken their O Levels that summer and excelled enough in most subjects to gain entry to the Sixth Form and hopefully onwards for University or Seminary experience.  Six subjects at O Level were sufficient to enter this company and compared to other junior years their numbers were few.

While on the subject, I cannot pass by the position of Prefect of Discipline, as it actually non-plussed me when I first heard of it.  The sole purpose of a man with this title was to punish pupils.  He was there seven days a week in his little office on the first floor of the main building, oiling and making more flexible a selection of straps and strops with which to beat the boys as they lined up with notes from their class teachers.  My only experience of discipline was at Notre Dame where well-mannered put-downs were enough to keep us in order.  This violence, this blood-thirsty need to inflict pain, smacked more of 18^th century naval tradition than the higher reaches of male education.  As far as I could see in the following weeks was how decent the boys were, any male exuberance could easily be put down with one or two well-chosen words.  This draconian violence perpetrated on these young men could only have been for gratification, it had no other purpose.  I got to learn how the boys reacted to this discipline and how the hard men treated it as a way of gaining a certain kudos from their cohort.  They would be beastly to certain members of staff in order to qualify for a note to see the Prefect.  A beating everyday would make them soar in their friend’s eyes.  The school did not have a chance faced with this bravado, it could only diminish the authority.

After that initial experience in the Assembly Hall, I needed time to reflect but not for Gordon or Mr Frost as he liked to be called, he threw me at the coalface immediately, by asking me to take the various first year classes, the Upper Thirds, as they were known, for their first music class, listening to their singing voice and try and pick out those with choral possibilities.  This at least got me working and more or less dispelled the vague uneasiness I felt.  Mr Frost was guffawing up his sleeve and behind my back as this labour of mine moved through the lower school, with me organising the Junior choir whose main concert of the year was Speech Day in the Free Trade Hall in Manchester, where the assembled students performed in front of parents and all that was great and good in the Diocese of Salford.  One moment a very fine soprano voice with massive potential for solo pieces developed quickly into a bag of nails and had to be swiftly replaced.  It was a never ending process and I always had to have one or two voices in reserve in case the inevitable happened.

The pupils in the school were roughly split between about 100 boarders, mainly boys who were training for the priesthood and about 600 dayboys gathered from every street corner in Manchester and beyond, rich and poor, there was no distinction.  The only qualification was to achieve high marks in the 11+ examination and satisfy Monsignor Duggan at an interview, arranged by himself at which a parent could attend for part of the process.  St Bede’s College was a Direct Grant Grammar School which meant that central government paid 50% of cost, local government paid 25% out of rates, the only criteria was intelligence, the other 25% were paying pupils who had passed the school’s entrance examination having failed the 11+, 10 or 11 of these were boarders financed by the Diocese.  We never knew who the other 20 or so fee paying boys were but you could have a good guess, they were boys who never excelled, scraped through but lasted the course and whose manners were not what they could have been.  In this system there was obviously room for manoeuvre and I got to realise the masterly way Monsignor Duggan filled his school with his type of boy but they were nearly all there on merit.  They were a very lively and intelligent bunch of pupils, lovely lads, who came, willing and able, for the supposed process that was before them.

However the best times for me were early evening when I took the individual piano tutorials.  Myself and Mr Frost got on reasonably well although I soon realised that his name in Manchester music circles was probably better than his expertise on the piano, he was more allegro and forte, with plenty of expressionism, he wasted little time on adagio and grazioso or even legato, if you understand my meaning, whereas as I put in what was needed for the piece.  He was however a decent organist, an instrument that requires a little rumbustiousness.  I tried to get him interested in my other key instruments the saxophone and the piano accordion to widen the boys minds with what else was possible but he was not interested saying “Monsignor Duggan would not be interested in the products of New Orleans or the bordellos of Buenos Aires”.  Faced with this negativity I did not press my case, I could have easily pointed out that his practice piano was more suited for a honky tonk house of ill repute in Chicago than an instrument with which to sooth the Classical ear.  (a musical interlude possibly The Entertainer *)

The boys coming for individual piano tuition were a very decent set of young men, all incredibly talented, a mix of dayboys and boarders.  Given their head the boarders, the potential priests, would sooner play jazz piano and the less serious day boys were intent on the classical style.  There was a lesson there if I could figure it out.  What I did notice however were their beautiful manners, their refined inquisitiveness to learn and strangely their submissive nature when lightly scolded by myself.  Considering there was only a few years age gap between myself and the older boys, I was always treated with courtesy, never once was there a sign of flirtation.  I loved every one of them, in the nicest possible way of course.  They were a teachers dream.  I was really enjoying the work, admiring my ability to pass on my talents and luxuriating in the progress my boys were making.  Except for one boy, Michael from Longsight, who only wanted to play rock and roll and blues music, the classical stuff that was my syllabus had no sway with him, although when pressed he could deliver but I could not go up his road, what would Mr Frost say, never mind Monsignor Duggan, who I think would stop instrumental music altogether, allowing only the choral stuff, given half a chance and then where would I be.  So my time with Michael was rather fraught but he was a lovely boy and willing to absorb what I was saying but if I had to leave the room to find a nun for example, free expression rose to the surface and Jerry Lee Lewis and Little Richard started echoing round the hallowed halls making me scurry back, almost unfinished in my ablution.

It was midway through my first Easter term, one Wednesday evening, I remember, as I was in a hurry to finish my last lesson, as I was going home for my parents 26^th wedding anniversary.  My father had booked a table at a local restaurant and there was to be a small family gathering.  Michael walked into the Music Room, with its many desks but also Mr Gordon Frost’s fine Brodmann grand piano.

His shoulders were hunched, his head down, he made straight for the piano and immediately started hammering out the rhythm of Good Golly Miss Molly something even I cannot do yet.  I rushed over to him, screeching him to stop, trying to put the lid down on his fingers.  He stopped immediately and bending over the keys, he started sobbing his heart out.  He was more distressed than I had seen anyone be, he was almost out of control.  I put my left hand on the back of his head and tentatively hugged his right shoulder.  I was at a loss for words or action.  I didn’t know what to do for the best.  After 20 seconds or so of this, he calmed down, became silent and brushing me aside, rose from the stool and dried his eyes with the sleeve of his blazer.

“Sorry Miss” he said “sorry, it’s nothing”.

“What’s the matter Michael, this is not nothing, tell me and I will try and help”.

“It’s nothing Miss, it’s just that I got a note to go up and see the Rector”.

“And”, I said “what did he say to you that caused all this”.

“Nothing Miss” and with that he pushed me aside and made straight for the door, “it’s what he did, Miss” and with that he was out in the Main Corridor and away, there was no point in me running after him.  I was dumbstruck.  What had the Rector done to make Michael so upset?

I knew that certain teachers when brought to the end of their tethers with a boy, used to bypass the Prefect of Discipline and send boys up to the Rector.  This kind of punishment seemed to be the ultimate deterrent and was usually done by the weaker teachers, who could not control their classes.  On the bus up to Alkrington that evening, I presumed the beating he received of Monsignor must have been a little harsh and promptly forgot the incident, vowing to take it up with Michael again at our next class.

We had a lovely night in the restaurant, I love the way Daddy makes a fuss of Mummy at these special dos we have.  He seems to still treat her like the young music student she was when they first met in 1929 and when he was at Medical School at the Infirmary.  It’s all so gooey but lovely.  They still adore each other after all these years.

The following week Michael came in for his lesson, he said nothing and I was not sure how to start but we got on with (Some passage of music) which he liked and was competent at.  Eventually I said “what was the matter last week, Michael, we lost that class and each one is important”

“It was nothing, Miss.  I was just upset, nothing, it won’t happen again” and with head down he concentrated on his fingers, but I could see his heart was not in the passage, there was something definitely bothering him, but I also knew he was not going to tell me.

THE MUSIC TEACHER – PART 3

At the end of the lesson, he stood up and said “thank you, Miss” and left and do you know, except for glimpses of him in the playground and on the corridor that was the last I saw of him.  He did not turn up for anymore lessons, I reported it to Mr Frost and all he could say was that boys were like that and that he would have a word but I do not think he ever did.  I did enquire off other staff as to how he was progressing and all they could say was what a brilliant boy he was, but recently had gone off the boil and his work had deteriorated tremendously.  They weren’t there to revive a spark and boys are like that.

It was all so much out of my control, I decided to cast the problem out of my mind, there was so many other things happening and after all Monsignor Duggan was supposed to be looking after pastoral care and it seems like he was the culprit with his excessive punishment.

I have never met the Rector, I do not know what he is like as a person and he certainly did not want to introduce himself to me.  Fr Burke, the Prefect of Studies, gave me that sardonic half smile of his whenever we passed but he also seemed to want to keep his distance, leaving all communication to Mr Frost.

The Staff Room was on the main staircase at first floor level, near to the Rectors office and the Prefect of Discipline’s, it is a place I rarely go to these days mainly because it was full of men with their ensuing smells of tobacco and lack of hygiene and mainly the atmosphere.  It was a long broad room with bookshelves lining all walls, a big bay window at one end overlooking Alexandra Park and three side windows letting in light from the south over the Cenacle Convent next door.  In the middle of the room was a snooker or billiards table, I cannot tell the difference, where some of the younger teachers played silently in their lunch break if Monsignor Duggan was not there.  In the bay window were two armchairs which nobody sat in except for the Rector and Fr Burke.  There was various other chairs scattered about in front of the bookshelves but nobody sat on them, they were piled high with exercise books from various classes, arranged in no particular order, there must have been a system but it was beyond me, unless a particular teacher had lien over a particular chair but there were far more teachers than chairs and I just let it ride like so many other things at this strange establishment.  The overriding sensation as you entered was the dense clouds of smoke from various pipes and cigarettes and that awful odour of the unwashed I had discovered on my first day.  There was little conversation, just huddled whispers and if the Rector was in attendance it seemed there was an invisible partition across the room at the end of the billiards table, nobody went up that end and if the Rector was there so was Fr Burke.  He seemed to act as a shield, a go between for the rector and staff. If the Rector wanted information off a teacher, Fr Burke used to walk the length of the room, pull the master to one side, whisper something in his ear, wait for the reply, then amble back to the Boss as I sometimes heard him called.  It was all very strange and disconcerting, certainly to the new me but it was kind of obvious that there was not much love lost between the two camps which made me, I suppose, feel a little better.  Unfortunately you could not engage these men in conversation, everything was conducted in segregation and whispers.

The staff in the main were older men, as old as my father and older and with none of his vitality.  They had nothing in common with me and acted like it.  There were a few slightly older than me but under 30 years of age.  A young assistant PE teacher who thought himself God’s gift, a Classics teacher out of Cambridge who was that snooty, he found his own company trying and an English teacher with remarkably good manners, very quiet, very studious and very shy who seemed to speak in riddles most of the time.  His sentences were like crossword clues, you had to start concentrating before he opened his mouth but at least he talked to me.  Of the priests, there were quite a few young ones, they kept themselves to themselves in the main and did not haunt the staffroom, especially if the rector was there.  They seemed, the young priests that is, not as well qualified as the lay teachers and certainly they found it difficult to speak to me, a female.  One of them, Fr John Rigby, the Prefect of Discipline, would make many a female heart flutter, 6’ 0” tall and broadly built, a true athlete, with an attractive broken nose from his time on the rugby field, I was told; but when I remembered what his day job was, my thoughts soon kept my emotions in check.

I spent most of my spare time at the school in the Practise Room or in the Music Room on Gordon’s Brodmann.  He had told me to play away on it if he was not teaching, I think he liked my playing and would often come and sit in the room for ten minutes or so pretending to mark exercise books but I could feel he was at one with my music and if the truth was known, I enjoyed entertaining him.  I had at least one friend, one ally, if needed.( a musical interlude *)

Round this time strange things started to happen, at least strange to me who had only been there for a few months but these events must have happened before, at least by the staff’s reaction or indeed lack of reaction.  Boys started not coming in to school, one minute they were there, next they were gone, never to be seen again.  The whisper round the staff was that these boys could not make the grade and therefore the Rector had passed them on to a lower level of education in another school.  I knew this could not be true as I had taught some of them and they had all seemed highly intelligent and willing to learn and none that I knew were unworthy of the school.  One boy I had met was in the cream of his year, a day boy, but he stood out for his ability.  He just took off one day and never went home for a week.  His mother was at the school crying not knowing what to do and then he came back home but he would not stay at the school and would not discuss it with the staff or his mother.  Very strange and the rumour went round that there was some domestic issues at play.  He was certainly a great loss to the school as were they all, all intelligent boys.

As I said I had taught several of them and they had all seemed to have it and were willing to learn and none that I knew were unworthy of the school.  However in trying to analyse this strange business, they all or at least those I knew, seemed to come from poor parishes.  However I cast that thought out of my mind, as Monsignor Duggan had often said in the Baeda, the school magazine, that the rich and poor were treated no differently, they were all God’s family and after all he had interviewed them and handpicked them himself only a couple of years previously.

Another couple of weeks went by and then calamity, one of my junior choir was found dead.  I could not cope with the news, I tried to get through my classes that day but couldn’t, I was just heart-broken by the tragedy.  Anthony had been such a lovely lad, with I remember a great gift for languages, he always liked using his German and French in my music classes, out of fun more than anything.  I remembered that he did not have many friends, he was a little remote, but a nice lad and a very reasonable voice which had unfortunately showed signs of breaking lately.  Anyway that would not matter now.

Anthony had committed suicide, he had hung himself at home.  The policemen were at the College quite often over the next few days, talking to and questioning the teachers.  I suppose trying to find a motive for such a dreadful act.  He had not left a note to explain his actions and it was all very sad.

Later that week the decision came down from on high that the school would continue as normal, no boys were to go to Anthony’s funeral but three teachers would represent the school.  I was picked, I suppose because I would be the least missed and the shy English teacher also, who was from the same parish as Anthony and another old teacher who looked well beyond his pension age and would not have been missed either.

There wasn’t many at the church, only his family and a few old lady parishioners who turn up for all these services whether they know the deceased or not.  You could see from the appearance of the family that they were not the wealthiest, they seemed a shabby lot, without meaning to detract from their personalities, but with no money how can you buy good clothes.  I suppose Anthony was their shining star, their only hope and now he was gone.  I started weeping at the thought and the English master kept looking at me nervously.  The priest, who appeared overcome with ennui at the proceedings, said a few words at the dirge, impressing on the congregation that this was not a requiem mass as the Church did not share that sacrament with one who had died by their own hand but for us all to look upon it as a blessing, a farewell to Anthony and as to why, he could only say that some of us are weaker than others and cannot jump life’s little hurdles.  It seemed very cold comfort for Anthony’s people and I thought it a horrible exposition of the Church’s thinking, it certainly taught me to be a little less devout than I was the day before.

We went off to Southern Cemetery afterwards, Edward the English teacher driving me in his car.  At the grave I saw Kevin, Anthony’s friend, he must have had permission to be there or he could have bunked off, either way I was past caring.  As we were walking away from the grave I caught up with him and said “what a terrible day”.

“I know Miss”, Kevin said “it shouldn’t have happened, it’s all Tommy’s fault (Tommy is the nickname the boys have on Monsignor Duggan).  Ever since that fight after Christmas, Tommy has had him up in his study twice.  Tony said it was horrible.  He had to take his trousers down and bend over a chair and Tommy would lean over him and stick things up his bum and make it bleed.  Tony said it was horrible and he didn’t know what to do.  There was nobody to tell, nothing only clean yourself up afterwards and forget the pain”.  I nearly fainted at this outburst and although realising what he was saying, I said “Tommy, who is Tommy”.  “The Rector Miss, Tommy Duggan”.  I swayed and walked over to an adjacent headstone and leant on it for support, I was in a daze.

Kevin walked on not realising the affect it was having on me or the impact of his words.  After a few minutes I regained my composure, with a myriad of thoughts going through my head, thoughts that had never appeared before, thoughts that I never thought I would ever have.  I still could not fully comprehend the full issue but at the very least it was obvious that Monsignor Duggan’s actions were disgraceful.

I walked over to where Edward had parked his car and waited my head still spinning.  Kevin could not possibly have made up a story like that.  He was 13 for goodness  sake, he would not understand the seriousness.  Edward finished off his conversation with some mourners, came over, apologised and opened the door for me.  We sat in and I said  ”don’t drive off just yet, I want to tell you something”.  He looked at me nervously but remained still whilst I related the whole of Kevin’s disclosure.  Everything: the nakedness, the bare backside, bending over a chair whilst the Rector pushed things up the poor child’s rectum, the pain and the bleeding afterwards.  How I got through the tale I don’t know.  I had never spoken of these things in my life before and talking to a grown man made me wriggle with embarrassment.  Edward just sat there, head down, with a wry look on his face.  I could see he was shaken.

There was a stark silence and then after a minute or so of cogitation he said “Julia, Miss Kirk!  We are both young teachers making our way in our chosen careers, we both have reasonably good jobs that need looking after.  Its our first step on the ladder, we cannot afford to mess up.  What you have heard from that lad could have been made up nonsense.  Monsignor Duggan is a Catholic priest, for heaven’s sake.  What you have described to me is something out of hell not the Church and if the remotest thing  like it happened, we have no evidence to push it only the words of a 13 year old boy.  My opinion, for what it is worth and for the sake of our own lives, is to forget about it, concentrate on learning our skills as teachers and move on and forget what you heard.

I said nothing, he started the car and we drove back to school.  I knew I couldn’t forget, Kevin was not lying to me.  Kevin was even more upset than me.  Kevin was only trying to look after his friend and try and explain Anthony’s death.  We drove back in silence and went into College, I had no need really, I had no further classes that day but when I am disturbed, I need the comfort of music.  Gordon was teaching a senior class, so it was the old honkey tonk for me, I didn’t mind, all I wanted was soothing chords.

PART 4

Well for the following couple of days, the beginning of last week actually, I wondered round in a daze, teaching by remote control.  I don’t remember half the things we covered but I suppose my notes will tell me and I had lost touch with any kind of progress in the tutorials.  I knew there was something fundamentally wrong at the school but I could not work it out, I knew it needed exposing but I did not know how to go about it.  I felt like Kevin and poor Anthony, I felt I had been wronged but I am sure nobody would believe what I had to say and sure as eggs are eggs, I could prove nothing.  I thought I would get wise advice off the only person I felt might believe me, I even thought of bringing this up with Mummy and Daddy but I had a worry that they also might not comprehend and I did not want our relationship to suffer.  No this was a professional problem as much as anything.

I cornered Gordon.  One lunch time I was playing a piece (name the piece and play a bit of it*) and I knew he would come in when he heard the music, he couldn’t resist if he was in the vicinity.  After a few minutes he came in, sat down at a desk, gave me a smile and pretended to be reading The Times, whilst at the same time surreptitiously conducting me with his right index finger behind his journal.  I let his idyll continue for a while and then I suddenly stopped playing and walked over and sat in the next desk. I told him I had something to say and for him not to interrupt until I had finished.  I wasn’t halfway through my expose, when he held his hands up signalling me to stop.  “Enough Miss Kirk, you have no proof, I know you haven’t.  This thing has cropped up before in different ways and has always been shot down.  Whether it is the ravings of a supposedly wronged pupil or even possibly the truth, you are up against a Monsignor here and you are quoting a 13 year old boy and that is a recipe for disaster.  You could harm your whole career if you go forward with this.”

“I have been teaching music at this school since 1921 and I have heard this kind of rumour on and off in all this time.  Monsignor Duggan has been here at the school since the beginning of the war and before that for a few years as well.  He is in an invidious position, up there on the firing line facing every man jack pupil who has a grudge.  Even if it was true and sometimes like yourself I don’t doubt some witnesses, you have to be a 110% sure and you cannot be.  My experience is that wherever you get male teachers and more often than not priests and pupils you will get this type of rumour and for me to investigate that, exposes my whole belief system.  I will start to worry about my own existence and I am not willing to lay bare the whole of my religious beliefs and teachings.  I am willing enough to let sleeping dogs lie.  I often think that there is an element of nature about it, as human beings we are all different in a way and I know the thought of it isn’t nice and I know if there was an element of truth in it, I would rather it not be there but the honest thing is, it is probably there or thereabouts all the time.  It does not seem to do the boys much harm.  With Anthony, I would suggest there were other things at play besides the story you are trying to tell me.  So my advice is to forget about it and in your own small way, like a few of us on the staff, try and make sure the boys avoid these one to one situations.  On the QT I know a couple of masters fear the worst and would rather send a boy to the moon than send him up to the Rector”.

“Look Miss Kirk, I am retiring in a year’s time and I have been watching your progress through this year.  I realise we have put a large amount on you, more than I thought we would at interview and you have sailed through it all without complaining and you have performed admirably.  The boys all love you and to tell you the truth, the old place needs more ladies like you around and less old fuddy duddys like myself.  Any way my job and my department is yours when I walk out this gate, I’ll make sure of that, so please forget what you are thinking.  You might be right and then again you might be wrong.  Concentrate on your career and everything will be fine”.  With that he folded his paper and went out the door.

I was deflated, flatter than a car tyre that had been punctured for miles, I was wobbling on my rims.  Everything I had once held dear was shaken.  Here was a senior master telling me I might be right but that it was an almost natural emotion that is prone to priests and some teachers and that I should forget all about it and try and not let these situations happen and realise that it is not as bad as I am making it out to be.  I could not believe what I was hearing.

A couple of days later I was still mulling over what Gordon had said and wondering what was the best way ahead when he, Mr Frost that is, collared me one evening as I finished.

“Miss Kirk, I have been talking to the Rector about my retirement and I have been singing your praises, telling him what a remarkable teacher you are.  He is leaving it up to me to crown my successor, there is of course, responsibilities and salary to iron out but the job is yours if you want it.  So please don’t rock the boat.  Forget about what you told me, go about your duties and everything will sort itself out for the best.”

I thanked him for his canvassing and his generosity but I could see I had options and I needed time to think and we went our separate ways, him to teach and bury himself in his musical world, me to work hard on why I was on this earth.  This last week had been the hardest few days of my life.  It was a lovely early July evening, the school was busy with external and internal exams, there was nobody about, I walked over and sat on a bench on the Master’s Lawn and let the breeze sooth my tortured brow.

As far as I could see I had three options:-

A.)  Try and uncover the evil that was happening – but how?

B.)  Get my head down and forget about the recent events and Anthony’s death and thinking about it, probably Michael’s decline and concentrate on being the best music teacher in the world, or

C.)  Resign, walk away and be rid of the pressures and try and fight this cancer from outside but with obviously limited chances but first find another job

They all had things to recommend and I did realise that if I followed my conscience and Catholic upbringing that Option A was the favourite but then I would be fighting my Church and to a lesser extent my parents.  I did not start to think what damage it would do to them and I really did not want to go there.  Option B was easy, get my head down and do what I was naturally good at but it was going against every fibre of my being but was I being too scrupulous.  Option C, although hard in the short term was the easy option and one I considered for quite a while but it would have been very difficult to achieve especially if I was working in a different place with other duties to perform.

I was at my wits end with no other avenues to go down, I had to decide there was nobody going to do it for me.  In the end and it was only on Wednesday did I decide and against every Christian bone in my body, I went for B.  I was young, ambitious and gifted, I kidded myself that I could look after the boys inside the fold rather than outside it.  I forgot about Kevin and Anthony and Michael and probably lots and lots more, I forgot about Monsignor Duggan and his evil, I thought only of myself and besides, that block of flats near the school playing fields was nearing completion, I had signed my name on the dotted line and my first mortgage payment was shortly due.   Mr Gordon Frost is delighted, Fr Geoffrey Burke and Monsignor Thomas Duggan now smile when we pass.  I wonder how much they know.  I wonder how much of the old adage they admit to.  Hold your friends close but your enemies closer.

THE END

(During the last few sentences the same rousing chorus of Faith of Our Father’s is being sung by the senior choir and slowly tails off to the last sentence when it ends in a strangulated climax)

*Denotes instruction for a musical piece of the directors choosing

Monsignor Duggan went on sexually abusing boys for another six years until he retired prematurely with health problems.

Fr Burke took Monsignor Duggan’s place as Rector and was elevated to Monsignor and within a year was made Auxiliary Bishop of Salford until he died in 1990.  Well paid and appointed for his stewardship of an evil man.

Mr Gordon Frost did retire in the Summer of 1961

Miss Julia Kirk became Head of Music that year and remained so until her retirement in July 2003 after 42 years teaching at St Bede’s College.  She never married.  She no longer saw what was going on around her to that day.  What Miss Kirk did not know at the time was that there was several abusers at the school, each taking their piece of the pie.  In the words of Edmund Burke that great Irish statesman and political theorist “it is necessary only for the good man to do nothing for evil to triumph”

Edward, the shy English Master, started at the College in 1957, having been educated there.  He had a long and successful and very popular career at the school before retiring himself at the age of 65 after 44 years teaching.

Mr Frost was right, when you get priests and young boys together you indubitably will get abuse.  It was these thoughts that sometimes bothered Miss Kirk in her following 41 years but eventually like the rest of the staff, one becomes immune eventually.  It is just the generations of boys growing in to men that suffer, growing old, not realising their potential, living wrecked lives and not being able to do a damn thing about it.

Let me tell you a story, a true story, that you would not believe could happen in this decent fair playing, cricket loving British Isles that we live in.  But the truth is, the establishment, those movers and shakers that are turning these islands into a totalitarian mish mash, are running scared.  For years having had their lusts fed with a diet of extravagant paedophilia, they are now being reined back.  They are being told by blogs like this and many other more important, better written journals that their days are numbered, that their vices are dead in the water.

This story like most cases of paedophilia started a long time ago, probably 20 or more years ago in that den of vice and corruption and poor legal control, Scotland, and in particular Aberdeen.  It was here that a coven of paedophiles, consisting of judges, policemen, teachers, social workers and their spouses, getting tired of their normal playthings from council care homes, decided to regularly rape a young Downes Syndrome girl provided by her father, Denis Mackie, a fellow coven member.

This abuse went on for many years before the young girl, Hollie Greig, confided in her mother, who having discovered this horror decided to seek retribution and protection for her daughter.  Anne, the mother, was arrested and subjected to all manner of degradation by the authorities, her brother was murdered and she was hounded out of Scotland but not before Elish Angiolini, Procurator Fiscal for Grampian region had put a tight blanket of security round the case and closed all investigation down.

Nine years later, Anne Mackie or Greig using her maiden name, was still fighting this injustice from her adopted home in Shropshire and had co-opted Robert Green, an elderly Warrington man, to help her fight this outrage and challenge the system and bring her case into the open.  Robert was arrested on the streets of Aberdeen, distributing flyers explaining the case to the unknowing populace.  His charge was breach of the peace.  This case having struggled through the courts for three years nearly ended up being the largest breach of the peace action in legal history, costing millions of pounds of tax payers money and involving nearly half the legal system and officers of Scotland.  Elish Angiolini who continued to travel upwards and higher was now Chief Procurator Fiscal of Scotland and fought the case as though her life depended on it, pulling in favours from all sides of that corrupt legal system.

Eventually Robert Green’s case came to fruition in February 2012 when he was sentenced, after any number of court appearances to a year’s imprisonment by a corrupt judge, Sheriff Principal Edward Bowen.  He tried to call Angiolini as witness but Bowen would not allow it.  One of the many establishment errors in this case.  Google http://scottishlaw.blogspot.ie/2012/06/former-lord-advocate-elish-angiolini.html to read about this saga.

So enter Tim Rustige, computer repairer and life-long campaigner against injustice all round the world, who amongst other stuff writes a blog called Rusty’s Skewed News Views in his own particular humorous, crude, put-down style.  He prefaces his blog with the words”Rusty’s Skewed News Views is a spoof publication, fired by the ironies of human nature and tempered with elements of misanthropy, satire and parody, inspired by traveling round the Earth more times than Skylab and composed whilst observing the inherent idiocies of Mankind and should not, therefore, be taken too fucking seriously”.  But the witch Angiolini, having been dragged up in the back streets of Clydeside did not know how to take it not too”fucking seriously”.

Sometime in 2012 whilst railing against Scotland, Elish Angiolini and the injustice meted out to both Hollie Greig and Robert Green, Rusty suggested, that perhaps Dame Elish Angiolini, who was scuttling onwards and upwards at such a great rate of knots you could only see the emaciated cheeks of her arse, was not the right person to take up the Chancellorship of St Hugh’s College, a college with such worthy alumni as Teresa May and Hugh Grant.  Perhaps she might have too much baggage for such an exalted position.

Angiolini was angry, as angry as only evil Govan, scrawny arsed, gobbling witches can be and slapped Rusty down with a court order forbidding him from stalking her on the net – a criminal offence no less.  That was last July, when police officers from Grampian Police gathered at Rusty’s home outside Altrincham, arrested him and took him up to Aberdeen, where his case was deferred until last week when again Rusty this time under his own volition and abiding by the law made his way to Aberdeen.  Again the case was put back and Rusty came home to Manchester, shades of Robert Green here.

Having returned home, Rusty’s son went to his father’s house to be confronted by a Grampian policeman searching the garage and another upstairs searching for God knows what.  Surely there must be a jurisdiction problem here?  The Scottish law system being what it is, entirely different from English law.  Grampian Police strutting on GMP’s manor.

After threatening the son with arrest, they confiscated Mrs Rusty’s computer, arrested Rusty once more and took him up to Aberdeen, where he spent the weekend locked up before being released without further charge on Monday morning, March 25th, and having to make his own way back to Manchester.  If this is not intimidation, I do not know what is and all for criticising the selection of a chancellor of an Oxford College.  But that was Monday’s news and this is Wednesday and Robert Green tells me Rusty is still incarcerated.  Take note all you Scottish people your day of atonement is nigh, vote correctly in 2014 and rid yourselves of those evil bastards in power in your neck of the woods and pray that Rusty is safe.

But all this is getting away from the real point isn’t it.  Whilst the police are running round the country like headless chickens arresting other old men under Operation This and Operation That, the real scoundrels, the real men of horror seem to be getting away Scot free, if you pardon the colloquilism.  Plenty of has been entertainers and men of no account arrested but no politicians.  These power brokers are the people who keep the need for paedophilia alive, these are the sexually driven morons that are never arrested.  The powerful protect their own, the likes of Lord Leon Brittan, Lord Robertson of Port Ellen, Lord Greville Jenner, Lord Gerald Kaufman and Lord Hardie of Scotland and many and more politicians having had their fill of young children still wander around the edges of greatness waiting for their licence of criminal immunity.

I have just had a long and very frightening e-mail from someone in the know at St Bede’s College in Manchester explaining the present atmosphere and Daniel Kearney’s erratic behaviour.  It seems that things, instead of improving from the all time low of last year when Kearney’s qualities as head were exposed like nothing else, they are now reaching lower depths.  At last the parents are copping themselves on and realising that the school is no longer the Valhalla it has always said it was.  Prospective parents are voting with their feet and  becoming aware that they might as well let their kids go to the local comprehensive and save 9 or 10,000 GBP a year than send their kids to Bede’s.  The results are the same and there are better things to do with their hard earned than give it to the reckless and feckless Daniel Kearney and his erstwhile mate, the florid Quinlan.

It seems the numbers of flustered parents clustering round the first year open day is no more, numbers of prospective candidates for the entrance examination are dropping at an alarming rate and the need for parents seeking a good Catholic education is a thing of the past.  Catholicism and all its paraphanalia no longer holds sway with Catholic parents.  Is there such a thing as Catholic parents in the 35 to 45 year old professional and earning classes?  Has the Church finally finessed its way out of the minds and hearts of supposedly Catholic mothers and fathers?  Young parents are now not as heedlessly taken in with the utterings of a religion that has lost its way in this world.  There are plenty of decent schools round the periphery of Manchester to send your children to which have no religious identity.  So why send your children long distances to a school whose supposed ethos is no longer required.  This 35-45 year old bracket of parents who have the money for a private education are generally these days divorced entirely from the Catholic Church and its ridiculous metiers.  All they want is a good caring secular education without the hang ups and dirty washing the Catholic Church brings to the table.

I think the Salford Diocese know this and are trying to break it gently to the parents that they have already enticed into their web.  That is one of the reasons why Kearney was a deliberate appointment, he was put in place not to succeed.  He was put in place in dubious circumstances to ensure that the school fails.  The school and its playing fields are a fine piece of real estate virtually in the centre of Manchester and the Diocese would be nuts not to redeem its assets faced with the problems coming down the tracks at it   Some of you might shirk from this point of view but we will see, a couple of years down the road, if in fact Kearney lasts that long.

At a recent staff meeting last week Mr Kearney lost the plot altogether, his neuroses came to the fore and he blamed the assembled staff for the catastrophic fall in applicant numbers and their machiavellian plotting and briefing of others.  A sure sign that another home leave of undetermined length beckons.

One of the other sure signs that things are not going right at the school are the numbers of staff sending their children elsewhere for an education.  They are nearest the action, they can see the quality of what is on offer and they are the ones with a choice.  A growing number are taking this away option and it is a real pity, some of the older staff who have put in years of good work must be in despair at the sudden downturn.  A career of caring hard work smothered by a failed Church and a failing, never fit for purpose headmaster and badgered into performing Kearney’s way by a phalanx of thugs employed by the head to manage the school.

Not only is the intake down 50% in numbers, I understand about 40 were garnered on the first cull, Kearney has been refusing places to some children that he suspects of taking other private school entrance examinations.  This was brought to light when a friend of one of the governors had a child who was refused a place even though the entrance exam had been passed.  Surely not the act of a rational thinker faced with the problems he had.  The governor complained and Kearney was told to reverse this and other decisions brought about by his many neuroses and which has made him very unpopular with the Quinlan mob but it has been a victory for the Hale Barns/Bowden set, which Bede’s unfortunately have tended to lean on these last few years with their scant regard for humanity.

This obvious policy of the Diocese, to send the school down as quietly as possible, has brought about the affect of pushing a wagon to the top of a hill and hoping Kearney, the appointed man, has brought the braking system with him.  He hasn’t, he left it at home on his last leave of absence and the wagon is now careering down hill with no control at all.

Kearney’s answer backed up by the governors is to increase the number of idiots from Manchester City Football Club.  These boys, although helping the school to recruit an intake of around the seventy pupils it needs for viability, far from help the school to survive.  In fact they are hastening its demise.  They are not subject to the same discipline and do not have the same academic ability as the rest of the pupils.  They have become an elite and are despised by the majority of the kids.  The City boys behaviour and general unwillingness to work puts more burden on the thoroughly disgruntled staff and so the cycle worsens.

This conundrum has made the staff morale become virtually non-existant, they now go to work to bring home their pay, looking desperately for other jobs away from their manic headmaster and a failing establishment.  There is a distinct stand-off between the ordinary staff and the SS style thugs that Kearney brought in to manage his new style of education, which came to a head at the end of Christmas term, when the staff or those daft enough to go, had their Christmas party.  One of these thugs, an antipodean, who brought his ancestors free and easy ways over with him, became plastered with a surfeit of booze they never knew how to handle and he started mouthing off to all and sundry.  A young female teacher told him to shut up and she got a lashing of his tongue.  An elderly teacher with some years at the school came to the lady’s aid but was grabbed round the collar by Down Under and given a throttling.  The row was hot and heavy and the talk of Didsbury for weeks and it was well known it was between the staff of St Bede’s.  No action was taken, Kearney bottled it and Pike poured it down the sink.  Poor old Spike Martin only lives round the corner from this venue, he would have dropped with a heart attack at the news of the school descending to such lows.

On good authority I have it that the feeling in the school is abysmal, the righteous staff are on their knees, the kids are not reaching their potential.  The Salford Diocese is fiddling whilst Bede’s burns and the parents are still forking out money for a dying cause.

As a follow up to my posting of 26th March 2013 entitled Tim Rustige – Prisoner of Conscience or Martyr against Paedophilia and because of the interest it created in my readership, nearly all of whom were to scared to comment, I decided to look into the Tim Rustige affair a little deeper and I can now understand the depth of fear there is out there amongst the decent people of this land or should I say lands.

We are embroiled in a totalitarian state, governed by a Gestapo-like police force, which allows all manner of illegal activity to take place in order to shut up ordinary citizens from asking innocent questions.  Democracy has jumped out the window and despotic values have taken their place.

Without us realising it we have been duped.  The elite have us enchained, we dare not say a word for fear of arrest.  Gulags and concentration camps are around the corner.  Paedophilia is rife among this depraved elite and they are feeding off us like we are krill to whales.  We dare not move or talk for fear of being stamped on by the jack-booted policing of the pitiful ruling class and their hypnotised, Common Purpose educated, acolytes.

Let us look at Tim Rustige a little closer, this enemy of the state, who was arrested in March 2012 and brought to court  last July for posing the question of one time Scottish Procurator Fiscal, Elish Angiolini’s piss poor handling of Scottish paedophilia cases and therefore was she of the right bloodline and intellectual ability to become head honcho of St Hugh’s College in Oxford.  This man, turned up in court in Aberdeen on 20th March to answer the original charge of stalking the said flimsy Angiolini, only to be turned away and told to report back on 10th April 2013 and on making it back home under his own steam to leafy Knutsford was promptly re-arrested two days later on 22nd March for breach of bail conditions and incarcerated in an Aberdonian dungeon in Aberdeen police station for the weekend and then released on Monday afternoon, 29th March, and told to make his own way home again.

Brutality, harrassment, bullying all come to mind even if this was a teenage thug who had done damage to person or property but this man is a 64 year old senior citizen who has survived one stroke, suffers from a chronic heart condition and as osteoarthritis in both hands.  His body is not worth arresting and they could never arrest his mind, so why bother you might ask.  Do they think this type of harrassment will quicken his demise and therefore rid these evil buggers of a scourge.  Well if they do they must be daft, because for every Tim they swat, 50 more will rise to take his place.  There are potentially millions of us willing and able to take up the banner if Tim should ever leave us and God hope he does not, not for a long time yet.  He is obviously fit enough to deal with Grampian police as it took seven of them to arrest him on the 22nd March along with two complicit and docile Greater Manchester policemen, who were there obviously to see injustice done.

He was arrested this second time as I said for breach of his bail conditions, in that his wife and his son shared a pc in the family home that could connect to the internet and which Rusty could use if he was so inclined and thus bring hell and damnation, not forgetting mayhem and havoc on the whole of  European if not Western civilization.  So the nine heroes of our police state seized the offending pc of Mrs Rusty’s and confiscated it.

Rusty’s original bail conditions imposed on 26th March 2012 stated that he must remain at his present address and that he was barred from using the internet and that he does not have any device with internet access.  The police decided that any such device in the family home was owned by Rusty.  Their actions have denied Rusty’s family also of access to the internet for their own personal, business and social function which is surely a serious breach of human rights.

These draconian court rulings remind me of the Penal Laws in Ireland in the 17th century when Catholics were deterred from owning land, from living in towns, banned from public office, marrying a Protestant, holding firearms or owning a horse with a value of more than £5 amongst many more numerous other things.  It is the same holier than thou, God-fearing hypocrites in Westminster and in the Scottish parliament who are ensuring that these type of rules live on.  It is fear then and fear now that makes them follow this line.

The real reason that came out during his penitential stay was that they suspected Rusty of sending the Scottish parliament a string of e-mails in support of Robert Green and his forthcoming court appearance in Edinburgh and against the probity of that scrawny Govan bitch, Elish Angiolini, who has lived in “fear and alarm” since accused rightly of purposely mishandling the legal process in the Hollie Greig affair in Aberdeen.  This raft of e-mails they say had a mysterious and cryptic link to the Rustige family’s IP address which can mean anything you want it to mean without wandering off into the surreal.

Seizure of this second pc which contained Rusty’s defence documents for his upcoming court case seriously impacted on his aim of seeking justice.  Along with this they seized a BT internet router, a flashdrive of Mrs Rusty’s Zumba dance routines and Rusty’s mobile phone, a cheap affair that does not and never has been able to connect to the internet.  All these things had been left behind as not worthy on the first trawl in March 2012.

Now not only Rusty has been put under the cosh but Ren, Mrs Rusty, a 57 year old grandmother and nurse in an old folks home in Bowden and Lee, Young Rusty, their 22 year old son who works in an office in Manchester have been confronted by this tenacious band of policemen.

The seven kilted policemen raided the old folks home, The Cedar’s Rest Home in Bowden and forced an interview, under threat of arrest but Ren, has stubborn has only a 57 year old woman can be, refused to answer any of their questions.  Six days after this first invasion they telephoned her boss, the home’s manager, to tell them they were coming again on 3rd April 2013.  This oncoming confrontation caused real fear and alarm in Ren thinking of these heavies and their brutal ways.

These Grampian men also descended on Young Rusty and at 4.00pm on 2nd April they entered his office in central Manchester and took him away to a police station and put him into a cell as he refused to speak until he was legally represented.  Four hours later, after dragging a solicitor of sorts down from Glasgow, they interviewed him asking him the same stupid questions as they had asked his father previously.  Lee maintained his “no comment” stance and he was released after seven hours after being DNA swabbed, finger printed and photographed although no charges had been filed.

The next morning as promised the Gramps decended on Ren’s workplace, the old folks home.  The old folk must have been scared to death at these goons who must by now have regular lodgings in Manchester.  As it turned out Ren, full of stress, had phoned in sick.  So off went the merry band to Rusty and Ren’s family house and arrested her at 10.00am and refusing to let Rusty accompany his wife, they took her off to Pendleton police station in Salford, by-passing many others along the way, where she met the same Glaswegian pinchbeck lawyer, who must have kipped up with the Kilties overnight.  She was asked the same questions as Rusty and Lee and was so annoyed she did not even say “no comment” and just sat there in silence.  Eventually she was DNA swabbed, fingerprinted and photographed and again no charges were filed and released at 3.00pm.  She then rose from her muted state and demanded to be driven home which the gallant Gramps dutifully did.  At both these interviews there were Greater Manchester plods present.  What role is GMP playing in all this illegality.

What came out of these interviews is that the Crown Office, Hollyrood the Scottish Parliament and the Grampian police are totally pissed off with Robert Green talking to the Met/Operation Yew Tree team about child abuse in Scotland and for Belinda McKenzie for staging a protest outside Aberdeen court house during Rusty’s abortive court appearance on 20th March.  It seems that Belinda, a doughty lady, really got up their noses as well as other orifices and she might be tarred with the same brush as Robert and Rusty.  The scotty police hope to put the three in the one barrel and smack it with a demolition ball.  If they did 50 more sphinxes would arise.

I am afraid going to these lengths, it is only Grampian police, Elish Angiolini and the Scottish parliament that will go into the barrel and when the demolition ball hits it we might be overwhelmed with a tsunami of shite.

The one question I would like answering above many many more is why Grampian police can ride rough-shod over various jurisdictions in England but English police are refused entry into Scottish jurisdiction in the case of Operation Yew Tree for example.  The whole fucking mess stinks and do not forget folks, this sort of thing is happening on your doorstep everyday.

Continuing my theme on Tim Rustige and his blog Rusty’s Skewed News Views and my previous postings of Tim Rustige – Prisoner of Conscience or Martyr Against Paedophilia posted on 26th March 2013 and The Rustige Family and the Disgraceful Grampian Police on 12th April 2013, a letter written by Tim to his constituency MP, Graham Brady, member for Altrincham and Sale, has come into my possession.  It spells out straight from the horses mouth, so to speak, the ignominy, the unlawful actions of the Grampian Police and the medieval treatment Tim and his family have been subjected to, all because of Tim’s lack of respect for that scrawny arsed Govan bitch, Elish Angiolini, one time Procurator Fiscal of Grampian, Highlands and Islands, one time Lord Advocate of Scotland, who was forced out of office in May 2011 after pressure from various sources became more than that Clydeside witch could bear and who is now lying low in Oxford but on a magnificent stipend as Principal of St Hugh’s College.  It seems these days under the present government you cannot keep a bad’un out of a job.  It also seems that you are not able to express your honest opinion about people in public office.

Mr Graham Brady MP,renowned for his lethargic reaction to anything other than his once weekly bowel movement, will probably sit on this letter like he sits on his arse each Thursday morning to rid himself of his constipated excrement – lots of gawping, hot flushes and eventual relief with the hope that some more able person will take up the cudgel for his constituent.

Here is the letter; it is long but it contains every detail of Tim and his family’s inquisition by the Grampian Gestapo:-

Tim Rustige                                                 Graham Brady MP,

22, Burlington Court,                                    Altrincham & Sale Constituency,

Burlington Road,                                          House of Commons

Altrincham,

Cheshire

WA14 1JT                                                                              16^th April 2013

Your Ref: 3355

Dear Mr Brady,

 With reference to our past communications regarding my arrest by Grampian Police at our family’s Altrincham home on the 23^rd March 2012, and charges being subsequently filed against me by Scotland’s Crown Office on 26^th March 2012 at Aberdeen Sheriff’s Court of cyber-stalking ex-Lord Advocate Elish McPhilomy Angiolini by allegedly circulating via e-mail – and a Facebook page – samples of the thousands of publicly available internet posted documents regarding her personal involvement with – amongst a host of other contentious issues – the Lockerbie terrorist bombing inquiry coverup; her Operation Planet report to circumvent the criminalisation of older men sodomising teenage boys – and the Peter Cadder ‘death-in-custody’ scandal.  Plus, foremost amongst a host of other controversial activities, linking her name to the subverted investigations of a now-notorious Aberdeen paedophile ring and the Hollie Greig sexual abuse / serial rape of special needs / disabled children scandal – and the staged suicide / murder of Hollie’s Uncle Roy Greig.

 Apparently this stream of e-mails and the Facebook posts drew Ms Angiolini’s ire as they publicly questioned her professional competence and moral integrity to be elected to the post of principal at St Hugh’s College, Oxford last September, while she remains shrouded in a cloud of ignominious controversy regarding unanswered questions related to the afore-mentioned issues.  To wit, precisely one year to the day, I was arrested yet again on Friday 22/03/2013 at our Altrincham, Cheshire, family home by a mob-handed crew of seven Grampian Police CID officers – conspicuously accompanied by two uniformed Greater Manchester Police drones – and in an act of erroneous rendition driven for five and a half hours through blizzard-like conditions up to Aberdeen for interrogation.

 Here I was strip searched, my clothes impounded, and locked in one of the numerous sub-level ‘Felix Dzerzhinsky Suite’ dungeons of their Queen St HQ over the weekend (22/03 Friday to 25/03 Monday afternoon) on a charge of breaching my bail conditions: specifically due the fact my wife Ren and son Lee have a pc in our family home (a second family pc and peripheral equipments now seized) that could connect to the internet and hence I could, if so inclined, by stealth, breach my bail conditions and use this medium of communication to cause mayhem and havoc and bring about the fall of Western civilisation as we know it.  

More specifically I was arrested on suspicion that I might  be involved with the transmission of a stream of e-mails sent to members of the Scottish government and certain (?) law firms in support of anti-paedophilia abuse campaigner Robert Green regarding a forthcoming (mid-March) court appearance in Edinburgh – and his cooperation with the Met’s Operation Yewtree and a House of Commons Select Committee investigating the scale of this deep-seated culture of paedophilia that permeates the upper echelons of UK society, specifically the Hollie Greig abuse scandal.  Additionally these e-mails condemned the punitive legal gagging actions filed against Robert Green by the ex-Lord Advocate Elish McPhilomy Angiolini – and too her vindictive pursuit of a prosecution against myself for allegedly causing her ‘fear and alarm’ by allegedly linking her to the Hollie Greig case – e-mails which they claim, in an air of cryptic ambiguity, were sent by someone from an internet café using a hotmail handle that has a mysterious (unexplained) link to our family’s BT Broadband Wi-Fi IP address.

 So, what’s the real reason for this second assault on our family household – precisely and most conspicuously ‘one year to the day’ after the first raid and arrest – a perverse spot of ‘Happy Anniversary’ vindictive harassment, perhaps – without the cake and candles?    

While attending a pleading diet at Aberdeen Sheriffs Court on Wednesday, March 20^th, three days prior to my arrest – where my intended plea of NOT GUILTY was deferred until April 10^th due the Crown Office slyly modifying the wording of the charges on the morning of my court appearance – the indefatigable and valiant crusading human rights activist Belinda McKenzie was fielding a Justice for Hollie Greig / Justice for Tim Rustige demonstration outside the court in gusty snow-driven weather – much to the affront and acute annoyance of court and police officials alike, who brought my hearing forward so I was out of the building – and hopefully with Belinda’s protest crew of Bolshie Scots following in my tracks.

 Apparently Belinda’s demo’ has raised some very serious hackles – persons in authority who do not want the Hollie Greig scandal resurrecting as it was with the Robert Green trial at Stonehaven – and the ensuing Free Robert Green campaign after he was imprisoned for a breach of the peace (publicising the Hollie Greig sexual abuse scandal and naming the abusers) – which Belinda and a host of others fielded with a dogged and stalwart determination.

 Here too with this case filed against my own person we see carbon copy parallels of the intimidation and harassment campaign fielded by rogue elements of the Crown Office and Grampian Police against anti-abuse campaigner Robert Green – drawing his case out for two years until his imprisonment in a travesty of justice trial where he was denied a jury (as have I) and subjected to the racial insults and slurs of biased court officials – led by Elish Angiolini associate Sheriff Edward Bowen – which have since been corruptly stricken from the official court record.

 As per Robert Green’s trial being staged in Stonehaven, to avoid the publicity that might be attached to a central Aberdeen court appearance, each appearance in court in Aberdeen I have been ordered to attend to date has been held in a ‘cleared courtroom’ or Sheriff’s chambers – ‘in camera’ – to avoid mention of Elish Angiolini and the Hollie Greig scandal.  Hence it is prudently speculated by canny members of the Hollie Demands Justice campaign that my eventual trial will be subjected to a similar theme – held in some remote area to avoid publicity. Regardless, even if it is staged in the Outer Hebrides, on the island of Benbecula, then the event will be publicised and justice protesters present.

 The original bail conditions, imposed on 26/03/2012, state I must adhere to my current domicile address and am barred from using the internet – and then in true Kafkaesque fashion, states, quote “DOES NOT HAVE IN HIS POSSESSION ANY DEVICE WITH INTERNET ACCESS” – which they have chosen to interpret as such ‘a device’ being in the same building – specifically the family home.  Thus my family, wife and sons, under such a draconian ruling, would be denied access to the internet for their personal and joint business and social group communications – a factor which obviously has severe human rights breach legal implications.

 Hence under these Orwellian ‘double-speak’‘Catch 22’ bail conditions, not only am I prohibited from internet access but also would be in breach of such simply by being in Wetherspoons or Aberdeen’s Dyce Airport as both are Wi-Fi connected and have ‘by the hour’ computer units available – or sat next to someone with a smart phone on a Stagecoach bus – also Wi-Fi connected.  Thus the Grampian Police can interpret a breach of said conditions at will – with a second breach of such resulting in an automatic and mandatory 110 day prison sentence – regardless of being innocent of the charges filed against me in the first instance.

 In this second search and destroy mission on the 22^nd March the police seized yet another ‘new’ family pc unit – owned by my wife Ren and youngest son Lee – which contained my trial defence data documents – plus the BT Wi-Fi Home Hub (property of BT), a flash drive loaded with Ren’s Zumba dance routines – along with my cellphone – a pay as you go unit that does not connect to the internet (and never has).  Now here contradictory factors and conundrums rear their ugly heads as when the first raid took place in March of 2012 the Grampian Stasi never bothered with the BT Wi-Fi Home Hub / modem router – and actually returned my phone as it didn’t have an internet connection facility. Oh well, any old excuse for harassment and arrest – if you don’t have the evidence then invent it.

 Further to this Stalinesque totalitarian theme, Grampian Police officers that same morning, following my ‘erroneous rendition’ to Aberdeen, descended in force on the workplace of my wife Ren, a nurse, at her place of employment – the Cedars Rest Home in Bowdon, and when the police were informed by her assistant manager, Arsenia Talentino, that she did not wish to speak with them, stated to the aforesaid Ms Talentino that if she did not, then she would be arrested – hence forcing Ren, under duress, to comply with their dictatorial demands – in a pathetic effort to elicit some comment that would be detrimental to the legal defence of myself – her husband of 30 years.  For the record, no mention was made by the Grampian Stasi of Ren’s immutable right to legal representation and to say nothing – apart from ‘no comment’.

 Further to these Gestapo / Stasi tactics, the manager of the Cedars Rest Home, Christina King, on the 28/03/2013, received a phone call from Grampian Police informing her that they would be arriving there the following Wednesday 3^rd April, to interview Ren, a 57-year old grandmother, under caution – and regardless of being informed they were not welcome, insisted they were legally authorised to ‘interview’ (read: ‘harass, threaten, coerce intimidate, bully’) Ren at that location – (why not her home is left unanswered) – a factor that has caused her ‘fear and alarm’ and hence impacted negatively on her already-fragile nerves – her emotional well-being – and physical health.   

 Our youngest son Lee (22) was picked up at work by the Grampian plod squad at 16:00 hours on the 2^nd April, Tuesday afternoon, taken to a Manchester police station, stuck in a cell for four hours as he demanded legal representation – and believe it or not – a pinchbeck solicitor was pulled out of some Glasgow pub / cesspit (wherever they congregate in the Gorbals) and driven down to Manchester to represent him.  Lee was interrogated on issues listed on the same 6 pages of A4 song sheet as myself on the 22^nd March in Aberdeen following being ‘detained’ / arrested for ‘breach of bail conditions’ as they couldn’t think of any other charge (wife Ren and son Lee having a pc in the house that had an internet connection – a most Orwellian-scary state of affairs). Lee maintained a stance of ‘no comment’ throughout the interrogation.  Lee was fingerprinted, DNA swabbed and photographed, albeit no charges filed – then released at 23:00 hours in Longsight and had to make his own way home.

 The following day, 3^rd April, Wednesday morning, Grampian police appeared at Ren’s place of work and were informed she had called in sick – with stress. They then appeared at our family home and detained her – 10:00 hours – refusing me the right to accompany her to Salford / Pendelton police station (Greater Manchester area).  Here she met with the same Glasgow solicitor as Lee (who had stayed in town overnight) and was interrogated by Grampian CID – the same questions – with Ren maintaining an air of angry silence and refusing to answer or even field a ‘no comment’ reply.  Ren too was fingerprinted, DNA swabbed and photographed, albeit no charges filed – then released at 15:00 hours – and demanded to be driven home – which the Grampian plods obliged – on their way back north to Nonce City (formerly ‘Granite City’ – Scotland’s answer to Scrapheap Challenge).  NB: during the arrests of myself, my wife Ren and son Lee, CID from Aberdeen were assisted by Greater Manchester uniformed police officers.

 Further to this campaign of attrition against the Rustige family by the Crown Office and their Grampian Police agents, the aforesaid Crown Office have been petitioning my Aberdeen-based solicitor with bovine requests that I plead guilty to posting the Facebook page and sending the e-mails in question and using certain e-correspondence addresses. Specifically to have me plead guilty to anything as they have no evidence of wrong-doing – and my arrest was based on the flawed premise that ‘an internet IP address is a person’ – specifically the fact that the BT phone line is registered in my name.

 Since this last ‘raid’ the family home internet connection has now been blocked from accessing our own Prisoners of Conscience International ‘Skewed News Views’ weblog and other Hollie Greig campaign support / activist / human rights group web sites and blogs. Obviously this is how unnerved these people are regarding the embarrassing (and incriminating) dissemination of ‘The Truth’ – specifically information concerning the Hollie Greig scandal and official coverup.

 What we see with Grampian Police today (acting south of the border with the complicit cooperation of the Greater Manchester Police) is a level of cover up of criminal activities – child sexual abuse and the murder of Hollie Greig’s Uncle Roy  – on a par with the scale of that of the UK’s regional police forces regarding the investigations now being undertaken and exposed by Operations Yewtree, Fairbank / Fernbridge and Pallial that have raked up a litany of sins of the past, committed by corrupt ranking members of high society and officialdom.  Here are exposed revelations of official cover-ups of elitists paedophilia rings by the taxpayer-funded BBC, the Home Office (Leon Brittan / Geoffrey Dickens MP paedo’ dossier being ‘misplaced’ – read ‘binned / shredded’), core elements of the judiciary, the social care services and members of the national police force –investigations all previously suppressed, witnesses silenced and evidence destroyed. Just as the Aberdeen Mafia have the Shropshire social services complicit in their drive to have Hollie’s mother Anne Greig discredited and sectioned – hence silenced – and Hollie in ‘official’ care – then the entire abuse scandal can die the death.

 Further, this paedophilia culture is not some perverse sexual aberration of the past – it is one that continues unabated to this day – and by elitist members of our sick society who have been entrusted with positions of public office.  These people are in dread of exposure of their crimes and sins – and fear the diligence and tenacity displayed by persons of moral social conscience and the troops who comprise the ranks of Hollie’s Army – and the dogged moral determination that drives the entire Hollie Demands Justice campaign.

What a pity the Grampian Police and Crown Office do not expend as much effort on investigating and prosecuting Aberdeen’s insidious establishment pederast ring as they do into suppressing and destroying evidence of such vile acts – and harassing and intimidating – and arresting and persecuting those who would endeavour to expose instances of child sex abuse and strive to gain justice for the victims, then the Granite City might be a ‘nonce-free’ environmentand this world a better and just place for our children to flourish in.

However, what we are instead burdened with is a Catch 22 situation: Scotland’s police are beyond Westminster’s control due to ‘devolution of government powers’ yet can come south of the border at will and arrest English citizens in England – with the compliant assistance of English police officers – on suspicion that they allegedly committed a ‘cyber-crime’ in England – specifically utilising the medium of e-mail to question the moral standing of a ‘complainant’ of Scottish birth – who resides in England.  Now how’s that for a ‘fubar’ state of affairs? Almost as skewed as arresting a person on the premise that an internet IP address is the actual person who pays the phone bill.

 Your thoughts and opinions on this matter would be appreciated, as also the ‘theft’ of computers and peripheral equipment, mass data storage devices, flash drives, external hard drives and internet modem routers, software programme CDs, and documents – along with our youngest son’s computer and BT Wi-Fi modem router and other peripheral equipment to a value exceeding £1,250 – for which no inventory of items seized was issued on either ‘search’ occasion.

 Yours sincerely,

Tim Rustige

cc: Tony Lloyd, Greater Manchester Police & Crime Commissioner

      Bain & Co Solicitors, Aberdeen

      Judge Paul Mahoney, European Court of Human Rights.

      Prisoners of Conscience International – file

Well there is the letter and it is hard to believe that this type of thing goes on in England, although we have come to expect it in that unlawful state that Scotland has become under the Scottish Nationalist government, ably assisted by a self-seeking legal brotherhood.  Fancy cutting off internet access, how stupid are these frightened skirt-wearers, scared of us finding something not nice under their kilts?  Do they not realise there are millions of us to contend with?   Cut off the internet to us all, stop selling computers and mobile phones.  Let the world go bust, just as long as they realise it is not a caber under their pleated folds, only a prick.

One last thought, they considered Jimmy Savile’s track suit bottoms were for easy access, what about a kilt for slip-streamed efficiency?

I cannot get the injustice being performed on Tim Rustige and Robert Green by the Scottish legal system out of my head.  Tim, of course, is the Altrincham man being hauled over the Scottish legal coals for telling that scrawny arsed bitch and Betty Boop look-alike, Elish Angiolini, one time legal head honcho in Scotland, that her past history of aiding and abetting paedophiles was not the paragraph to have on her curriculum vitae when applying for the job of bossman at St Hugh’s College in Oxford.  She got the job anyway whether Tim objected or not but that is the way in high places, if your high enough and evil enough your good enough according to British top level thinking.

Robert Green from Warrington is the man who has been hauled over the same coals now for three years or so since being caught handing out leaflets explaining the behaviour of that now famous but unpunished paedophile ring in Aberdeen.  Famous for their part in  multi-raping over many years a young Downes Syndrome child called Hollie Greig and famous for containing the cream of Aberdeen society including judges, policemen, teachers, social workers, wives and girlfriends of the Granite City’s elite and who Elish Angiolini, her of the scrawny arse and varicosed thighs tried and succeeded in protecting.  Poor Robert was eventually sentenced to 12 months in prison for this breach of peace in some illegal sham of a trial that purported to call itself justice north of the border.  Actually he only served four or five months before the Scottish legals bowed to massive public pressure and realised they had fucked up and freed him to fight another day.

Both these men now face imminent courtroom battles over these next few weeks in the Scottish excuse for justice and fair play that their sham of a legal system purports to be.  Where bias and institutional corruption links the Holyrood Government under slippery Salmond, the Grampian police and in fact all Scottish police forces, the Crown Office and the powerful Aberdeen paedophile ring and the whole legal system in Scotland and makes it impossible for justice to prevail.

So we have two honest men, now prisoners of conscience expecting jail sentences for doing nothing but complain about the present totalitarian state in which they find themselves in.  Whilst in England, at the Appeals Court in London, Abu Quatada, him with a hook for a hand, who lost his God given whilst playing with explosives and who for 20 years has taunted his own Muslim brothers into thinking and doing things that they should not be doing and thinking, has his sentence of deportation to Jordan quashed as he might not get a fair trial in his homeland because of “a real risk of a flagrant denial of justice”.

Back to Scotland and on our doorstep where there is more than a real risk of a flagrant denial of justice for our two men from the North West of England and if you look into it there are flagrant denials of justice everyday.  Look at the website glasgowdefencecampaign.blogspot where it seems that the poor Scots themselves have woken to injustice.  It is a stone cold certainty that when the kilted judges or sheriffs as they call them in Caledonia sit down, injustice is what emanates from under their pleated skirts.

Something is definitely rotten in Scotland today and the smell which is almost tangible looks as though it is exuding from under that pile of dirty knickers that old Elish left in a corner of the Crown Office in Edinburgh before she left for England, knickerless and undetermined.  That same pile of knickers that nobody up there dare touch.  I hear she used to have to change them five or six times a day.

So come on you full blooded English men and women do not let this uppity Govan bitch and her sporraned mates run the roost over us, shout, complain, pass on the message and above all start to make a fuss over this “flagrant denial of justice” being meted out to these two old men.  These men are not youths, they are both in their sixties, free-thinkers, both with the sagacity to realise things are wrong and both with the bravery to fight to right a grievous wrong.

I have been hacked once again, this is the third time.  Some idiot(s) has (have) tried to do this but this time it does not have the sweet smell of incense about it, this time it has all the hallmarks of a Jock.  That faint leathery, sweaty, ammoniacal odour that comes from the crotch of a Jockess on heat.

My internet investigators tell me that my IP address was targeted causing me to lose my e-mail system and certain alternative media sites that I share an interest with.  By asking around I have found out that this has happened to other sites concerned with the same quest as myself, freedom of speech, the wish to seek vengeance on the heartless Scottish legal elite and in particular the doing down of that criminal, lying, scrawny arsed Govan bitch, Elish Angiolini.  She who was Scotland’s premier legal bod; she who has a face to match her arse, so sharp you could chop sticks with it; she who was forced to resign her position two years ago due to mounting external pressure and seek refuge in the hallowed, ivied halls of St Hugh’s College, Oxford.

However she still has some friends left in the Crown Office in Edinburgh and they are fighting like mad to ensure her virtue or what is left of it remains as intact as it is ever likely to.

Robert Green, the pensioner from Warrington and champion of children in Scotland and in particular Hollie Greig, the Downes Syndrome girl who was horribly raped over a number of years by a cabal of Scottish bigwig paedophiles, tells me that his case in Edinburgh this week has morphed into a civil case of defamation, with Angiolini’s sniffers using every legal Scottish trick in the book.  This morphing has stopped Robert, a pensioner with no income, from seeking legal aid to navigate the vagueries of the Scottish legal system and makes it certain that he will have to defend himself against the might of the now thin legal protection Angiolini still has.

It strikes me that the allure Angiolini had in opening up the mouth of her birthing canal to any jock with a wig, for them to savour the rancid depths of her inner being, is now not as enticing as it was when she ruled the roost up there.  Before she, her with the scrawny arse, a face to match and one that you could chop sticks with, started opening up the mouth of her birthing canal to all and sundry, the bewigged jocks just got on with their job of raping the Scottish economy, the legal system and the children of the parish and nothing was ever said.  Somehow or other it seemed to have been alright.  But Angiolini arrived with her lying eyes and made it obvious to all and sundry that what was normal about Scottish legal behaviour should not be tolerated by the rest of the population.

First Robert Green stepped up to the plate, then Tim Rustige and now she seems to have taken a shine for me.  What is it with her that she fancies old men from the North West of England, admittedly past their raunchy best, to fix her dripping loins to.  Can she not get enough satisfaction out of the sleek, thrusting young muscle of legal Caledonia?  Or is it that she herself is past her best, her attraction has waned, her feistiness has foundered in that putrefying pool of Scottish Paedophilia.

Writing this piece I have felt guilty at damning the fair sex with this monstrosity Angiolini, so I questioned my dear wife of 40 years, the brave Helen.  Without pondering on the subject she said that it was OK as Angiolini has proved herself not to be a woman.  As they say about ducks, if Angiolini does not look like a woman, does not act like a woman or talk like a woman, she obviously is not a woman but some evil looking android built by sheep shagging jocks to take their burden.

So any of you within spitting distance of Edinburgh on Wednesday, the 1st of May 2013, try to make your way to the Court of Session, Parliament Square at 10.00am to support Robert in his hour of need and make it obvious to legal McTavish and aging scrawny arsed Angiolini that we of richer blood do not need this nonsense.

Two years ago in the Little Theatre in Athlone I had the privilege of watching a debut performance of a play written by Neil Richardson and directed by Caroline Barry called From The Shannon To The Somme. A true story about an Athlone man, Sgt Michael Curley, a soldier before and during World War 1.  Michael had done his seven years with the colours and was at home in Athlone, working and serving out his time in the Special Reserve.  It was 1914 and he had helped found the first unit of Irish Volunteers when war broke out and he was immediately called up into the 2nd Battalion Connaught Rangers, where he witnessed the horrible slaughter of this battalion in the first few months of the war during which he did something that was to prey on his mind for the rest of its life.

The second act takes place at 3rd Ypres in 1917 on the front line, the soldiers in Michael’s platoon are tired of war and want an end to it but they realise how much Ireland has changed since 1914, its a different country from the one they left, there is not much left to go home to, a dilemma faced by thousands of enlisted Irish men.  However Michael has one child with another about to be born.  There is one final and tragic denouement.

I vowed that night that this would be a play for King House in Boyle, one of the historic homes of the Connaught Rangers throughout the 19th and early 20th centuries.  The following November I had the distinct honour of being elected General Secretary of the Connaught Rangers Association, an organization set up to remember those brave soldiers, mainly from the West of Ireland, who fought with honour and courage for 130 years in the ranks of the British Army, under Wellington in the Iberian Peninsula, under Raglan at the Crimea, under French, Haig, Hamilton and Allenby in the Great War and at many a place  in between including long stints in India and under the disastrous Buller in South Africa.

Sometime in late 2012 Roscommon County Council approached me and asked, with the forthcoming year of celebration in 2013 which was a government initiative called The Gathering aimed at bringing hosts of visitors to Ireland, would we has the Connaught Rangers Association put something on in King House to mark the Boyle 400.  400 years since Boyle received its charter as a town.  I was nonplussed for a time my vow forgotten temporarily but William Beirne, a man for crisis and our stalwart Treasurer, reminded me of the play and immediately our minds were made up.

Over a series of meetings we explained our ideas to RosCoCo and even brought Neil, the writer and Caroline, the director, down to confirm our serious intent.  The Council were mightily impressed and told us to get on with it.  However between cup and lip as they say, it took three more months of negotiation before we had a final agreement.

So now the auditions have been held, the cast has been chosen and we are full steam ahead.  Both Neil and Caroline are overjoyed that their play is being performed once again and are both putting their heart and soul into this new production.  The cast of four are young talented actors based in Dublin, who have known each other for years, having graduated from University College  Dublin together where they all played leading roles in DramSoc, the prestigious university dramatic society which spawned Ireland’s latest heart-throb, Chris O’Dowd and who is funnily enough a native of our fair town.  The four are fully immersing themselves into what is expected of them and Caroline is a tyrant, upholding strict military discipline in the ranks during the long series of rehearsals.

For those interested the three soldiers in the play are Paul Fleming from Moate in Westmeath, Dave Fleming from Dublin and Paul Fox from manor Hamilton in Leitrim and Michael Curley’s wife Agnes is played by that wonderful actress from Boyle, Paddy Jo Malpas.  You might think nepotism played a part in the auditions but no I had neither hand nor part in the selection process.  She was picked out by that famously up and coming actor, Stephen Jones, who was casting director for the play and who played the original Michael Curley in the first production but whose diary is now full and can only lend his experience.

The play is fast moving and hum0urous, using all the colour that a soldiers vocabulary can sum up and showing bathos and pathos in equal measures until the final tragic finale, marvelously written by Neil Richardson, an author of two published military history books, who at 28 years old is destined for great things.  It should be a fantastic nights entertainment for all who come to see it.  It will be played in the Grand Salon at King House, a wonderful intimate space for such a dramatic production.  It seats just 120 people on the nights of the 26th and 27th of May 2013, I know tickets at 15 euros will be scarce so book early at the Box Office on 071 96 63046 to ensure a seat and a privileged place in dramatic history.

The latest news to come out of St Bede’s, sent to me by one of the disaffected masses, is a little hard to swallow but it seems that Mr Daniel Kearney the headmaster has come up with a brainwave.  He cannot make up the numbers for his first year in September 2013, all he could attract was about 40, well down on what he needs and the lowest since 1922 when the school was in its infancy.  So what does he do but go across to the Preparatory School and hive off years 5 and 6 thus diluting the academic level of his school even further.  Not that he has done this off his own back, but with the full compliance of the florid Quinlan who must be affected by the same mental breakdown has DK.

I always thought that the Preparatory School was a separate entity, a school in its own right but no, when needs must it can be cherry picked at random.  The new head, Mrs Corr-Deed, only there for eight months, must be distraught.  With one stroke of the pen, or was it a sword, Kearney has taken her two senior years and co-opted them under his aegis.  60 kids to bring his numbers up to scratch:  Mrs Corr-Deed probably thought she was a headmistress, now she knows she is only a deputy.

So now we have a dumbed down but full complemented school for 9-18 year olds and a decimated and glorified nursery school for 3-8 year olds.  What a shocking mess, two schools now on the downward path.  A couple of sets of parents have actually e-mailed me in the last few months having read my blog postings on the College.  They were frightened by the news coming out of the school and asked me whether it would be safe sending their kids to the Prep, all I could answer was that the Prep seemed an excellent school but it had an ogre letting its shadow fall over it.  All I told them was that I would not send my children into such an atmosphere.  It looks as though my thoughts at the time have proved correct.

Will there be job losses with this ridiculous game of Kearney’s chess?  Well I guess there is bound to be and it will be the Prep teachers who will lose out.  However I am certain that Kearney’s wife and his cycling mate’s wife who have new part time jobs there will be OK.  Two jobs that appeared all of a sudden, I must have missed the advertisement.

So mad cap Kearney is happy, he has his numbers up to scratch albeit some can just about read and write but it took some doing.  I understand on good authority that discounts of between 50% and 90% on fees have been offered to ensure that the precious and original 40 keep on side.  What must the parents who are already paying the full whack make of all this?  They could start revolting.  To cover that scenario I understand a little legerdemain was created by quickly setting up new and unofficial bursaries.

Latest, latest news I am getting tells me that the MCFC boys are not required to pass any sort of academic selection, the prep school kids are certainly not for the moment being asked to reach an academic level, so half the school is being put through the grinder and half are not.  What a mess up, ranks of inequality and lo and behold one of the senior management team has seen the light and has now decided to send his eligible child to a local comprehensive despite the titbit of a staff 50% fee reduction.

So what we seem to be building up to is two failing schools, two lots of unhappy staff, two lots of disaffected parents but the right numbers bringing in a damn sight less money than would have been budgeted for.  I would say a recipe for disaster, wouldn’t you?

Not only that but to me it seems immoral that parents of 14-18 year olds inveigled into the trap some years back have to pay the full whack of something over £9,000 per annum, whilst the younger end of the school have almost free education.  These people are trapped with public examinations looming, it was something they had never signed up to.  They cannot move their kids or can they?  Think about it folks, its easier than you think.

Unfortunately today’s text is a long one, but persevere and I hope its strands make sense in the end.

After yesterday’s posting I received a very powerful e-mail from a lady, Katy Attwood, an ex-Bedian who graduated from Oxford University and has since carved out a successful career in the hard earned world of business in Manchester.  At the outset she started to talk about John Byrne’s, 25 year plus control of St Bede’s from the early 1980s until 2007 when he eventually let go of the reins.  Now although there was a lot that could be said against his character and personality and how it seemed football and not academia was his over-riding passion, a lot could be said for him on his ability to run a tight ship but he did leave a lot of baggage behind him in terms of Fr William Green’s abuse of boys under his watch and other clerical abusers that have not yet seen the light of day.

Also and fairly importantly, he left behind him a phalanx of disgruntled but highly intelligent former pupils not happy at all with the way he handled his tenure and who now form the backbone of legal, commercial and medical life in the North West and who would never contemplate sending their children to Bede’s.  This is part of the socio-economic bracket I have mentioned before in previous blog postings, the 35-40 year old parent with enough spare money to afford a St Bede’s education.  What the school did to take up this disaffected cohort was to attract parents who had previously no prior relationship with the school, people who had made their money on the back of the commercial roller coaster of the late 1990s and early 2000s.  With the downturn in the economic landscape of the past six or seven years, this group of parents diminished considerably but given the right acumen this same group could have been garnered, to continue the demand for good education that St Bede’s rightly attracted previously.

I think Michael Barber, who followed John Byrne, understood and realised all of this and amongst other things  toned down this archaic demand for discipline, presumably emanating from this angry bunch of celibate (?) bachelors who had been ruling the school as governors for 20 years or more.  Mr Barber decided to make the school more attractive, more pupil friendly, than it had ever been.  Examination results proved he was on the right road, entry levels stayed high, parents liked him and more importantly the children did as well.  Why he left we will never know, unless the florid Quinlan opens up but then we could never believe him, a man of 70 steeped in Catholicism is bound to be and as proven to be an inveterate liar.

So let us get back to Katy, the lady who e-mailed me, an intelligent, hard working business woman with a large family of five children, a past boon to St Bede’s coffers, who has the means but would never dream of sending her children to the present St Bede’s, where she and her father before her were educated and although she lives in its catchment area.  She says verbatim in her e-mail:

“The demise of St Bede’s is down to the following things and some have a larger role to play than others;

1.) The incompetency of Daniel Kearney as Headmaster.

2.) The aftermath of Fr Green’s abuse.

3.) The historic abuse of Monsignor Duggan.

4.) Paul Malpas’ blog.

5.) The google adwords campaign that ran for two months about child abuse at St Bede’s.

6.) The Wikipedia entry with the audio files about the safeguarding interview.

7.) The Murphy Report regarding the Archdiocese Of Dublin in November 2009 and its ramifications over here.

8.) The hubris of the Salford Diocese

It’s all of these frankly.  I will leave it to you guys to decide what percentage each element can claim.  But, Daniel Kearney’s incompetency is the major one.  As is Salford’s handling.  This could all have been sorted much more easily by clever business people.  But these people are not clever, have no business acumen and persist in the delusion that they are industrious intellectuals properly earning their salaries.  When in fact they are scrounging dullards who have never had an original thought in their lives.  Pricks.

Anyway I certainly think the Malpas’ have had a part to play but I take no glee.  Nor do I really care.  It’s all energy.  We have played the part of brooms.  And just as I don’t emotionally engage in sweeping shite up, nor do I find much pleasure in watching Bede’s downfall.

That institution has no part to play in the new world that is dawning”

Strong true and accurate words from a product of this failing behemoth and if you have not completely guessed it, Katy is my daughter, sending a totally unsolicited e-mail, a totally powerful piece from a lady who has been there and done it.

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Let us now take a quick look at each one of her eight points and examine them in slightly more detail.

1.) The incompetency of Daniel Kearney.  He was promoted from within, not a good thing in such a sensitive position with a potential crisis looming.  He had few friends on the staff and he was replacing a well liked  Michael Barber.  He was disliked by most pupils, in as much as they had no respect for his conservative Catholicism (he was Head of Religion), his relish of historic discipline and his apparent sexist thinking.  His only virtue it seemed was that he had been at the school for ten years and reeked of the Catholicism that the aging governors loved.  He had never showed himself to be an intelligent leader of people, he even harboured the grudge he had against Barber, after being passed over in his application for Head two years previously.  He has in the last two years proven himself to be a catastrophic failure, mentally fragile.  He needed a good guy to back him up, he chose another bad guy.

2.) Fr Green’s abuse.
The elephant in the room since the middle 1990s, rumours in fact had been floating around since the late 1970s but it was not until 2006 did the denouemont occur.  A black stain on the College for over 25 years.  John Byrne kept a tight lid on it all during his tenure but failed spectacularly in the end, probably one of the reasons for his decision to cash in his chips.  However the man who supervised Green’s whole reign was the fawning, obsequious Classics master and then Rector of the College, a product of the vile Monsignor Duggan, Fr later Monsignor Terence Dodgeon, who stumbled through his priestly life and then disappeared off our screens in 2006 as Green attended court and who is now living very discretely in a cottage in North Lancashire.  One not very nice man, who we might here more of in the future if his own sorry tale is ever told.

3.) Monsignor Thomas Duggan.
Recently news of his longstanding and historical abuse of boys in the 1950s and 1960s has done the College no good at all following on the heels of Green.  If Green was the modern elephant in the room, Duggan was the historic mammoth since his ascendency in 1950.  Time will probably show us that not only was Duggan the catalyst for the demise of St Bede’s but he will probably prove to be the catalyst for the demise of the Salford Diocese.

4.) PaulMalpas.com, my blog. My interest in this subject originated in my quest for justice for boys Thomas Duggan had harmed in the 1950s and 60s.  However with my quest more or less sorted and a forthcoming law suit against the Salford Diocese on the horizon, the upheaval caused by Michael Barber’s leaving and Kearney’s successful putsch took over my campaigning void.  I realised that what was happening was wrong, with Quinlan trying to pull the wool over parents eyes with that little note he sent them all in June 2011.  My fervour to open up this bag of worms was strengthened by the ever increasing band of disaffected people who were not at all happy with the present regime.  As Katy said in her e-mail all we have done is acted as brooms, we do not like shite littering the floor of our house.  I thank all those people who have written to me, they are the truth sayers, I once again am just a conduit to let the truth flow.

5.)  The Google Adwords campaign that ran for two months about child abuse at St Bede’s.

An astute and enterprising transatlantic bunch of legal eagles decided a few months back to take advantage of an increase of traffic searching for information on St Bede’s and set up a Google Adwords campaign targeting victims of abuse.  To the uninitiated, what this means is that whenever anyone searched for information regarding the College, a bloody big advert would appear saying “Are you a victim of abuse at St Bede’s?”  The effect of this I imagine would have been two-fold.  Firstly it would have attracted people who were abused or who know about abuse at the Alma Mater.  Secondly it would have rather put off a prospective parent, don’t you think?

6.) The Wikipedia entry with the audio file about the safeguarding commission interview.

If you go onto the Wikipedia page on St Bede’s there is the “Reports of Abuse” section, itself a rather torrid summary of information for any educational establishment, especially one which relies on parents’ money and is so squarely situated amongst top notch competition.  Added to the Fr. Green stuff is also some information on our beloved Duggan.  The person who put this up (and it was not me as I haven’t a clue about Wikipedia) informed me some time back that every time they put up the information, one of St Bede’s disinformation agents would take it down.  Within hours.  That person simply went in every day and put it back up again.  And finally, with the addition of some hardcore evidence in the form of an MP3 file of a meeting I had with the Safeguarding Commission of the Salford Diocese in which they openly admitted the abuse took place, the powers that be at Wikipedia were sufficiently convinced of the veracity as to make that particular piece of information immutable.  So now, prospective parents doing their background checks as all parents should, are faced with not one admission of abuse but two and a nagging feeling regarding tips of icebergs.  “Let’s check out Manchester Grammar, shall we? And Withington Girls.  And Stockport Grammar and Cheadle Hulme Grammar, and Alderley Edge and Manchester High and Loreto and Altrincham and North Cestrian.  Oh what a choice we have.”  No wonder Kearney could only find 40 eventually highly subsidised guinea pigs to taste his brand of education

7.) The Murphy Report and its ramifications.

This report by Judge Yvonne Murphy opened the door to truth in Ireland in November 2009.  It turned me from a fully fledged 63 year old Catholic, father of six children, into a spitting viper at the corporate deception of the Church over my lifetime and beyond.  I am no longer a Catholic, my church is my conscience, I no longer believe in that ceremonious clap trap I was bamboozled with for 60 odd years and I am sure that is true for millions of people, not just in Manchester and Ireland but around the world.  They can no longer feed us shite, our taste have now developed onto a much higher table.

8.) The hubris of the Salford Diocese.

It is laughable how the Salford Diocese react to crisis and honest enquiry, I have been suffering them since 2009.  Immediately they sense pressure, truth goes out of the window and deviousness creeps under the door.  Why a religion, a supposed upholder of good and righteousness believes this way is a conundrum of vast proportion that is not expected or warranted.  In their ceremony and teaching the Truth is the epitomy of their belief.  Why go on the defensive when the truth is asked for.  These people who run Salford and the College are scared, negative, non-celibates, who live their life bound up in a lie.  Richard Sipe that famous ex-Benedictine monk in America who has lived his adult life studying celibacy, states that from his research at any one time 50% of priests are sexually active.  If they can lie in the face of such an elemental part of their lives,  they can lie about anything, so that when they become sexually non-active as with the rump of the present College governors, who are all well into their 70s, their hubris at having successfully covered up this lie, comes to the surface and this same false excessive self confidence is shown in all aspects of their lives to the detriment of everything and everyone around them.  They exude false ideas and thoughts, they exude the love they have for the Church and its flock, whereas their emotional maturity stopped when they were 11 or 12.  They have no care for anybody other than themselves, they should not because of this, have any responsibility.  Unfortunately they have and stacks of it, to our detriment

Well that was a busy few days with literally thousands of people reading my blog from all over the world, especially the length and breadth of England and especially from the North West.  Friday was a record day for me and traffic on Saturday exceeded that, with a levelling off yesterday, our supposed day of rest but it was still hectic.  With thousands of people all spending 15 or 20 minutes every day reading what has been written, you begin to realise what a powerful tool a blog can be.

It all started off with news coming through on Friday about the Manchester Evening News report on the abuse at St Bede’s College that was scheduled for their Saturday edition and this was then followed by what seemed at the time a torrent of comments on my previous couple of blog postings and a barrowful of e-mails from supposedly disgruntled pupils, one suspected master and one ex-governor of the school.

When analysed, what looked a lot was in fact less than 27 pupils encouraged by twitter and facebook to write in some absolutely inane comments about how in their little cocooned world they loved the school and its headmaster and fuck its history.  None of it alarming, some of it not unreasonable but typical of an immature mind.  To say it was orchestrated is beyond my powers but the content was mainly similar and the same IP addresses and e-mail addresses were used quite often.

It was hardly a cross section of opinion but more of a rant by a few, mostly hiding under the shadow of anonymity and accusing me of everything from criticising the school, themselves, their teachers and almost for stealing the crown jewels.  None of which I have done.  I might have criticised the leadership of the school, Quinlan, the Chair of Governors and Kearney, the headmaster and to a lesser extent Pike, the Deputy Head but as far as I know they are fair game when the complaints that have been put to me by parents and others are concerned and after all it is only my opinion based on what concerned people tell me.  I certainly criticised the crew of the Salford Diocese but I have been doing that for years, they seem to like a little flagellation; it seems to go with their celibacy but they and their forbears have been covering up the historic and modern sexual abuse that has totally blemished Bede’s reputation recently.

The big trouble at Bede’s is not the downgrading of the school although that is important but knowing the paucity in the mindset of the management it is inevitable and I think eventually damaging to its ethos and reputation.  The big, big thing is that Bede’s will not confront its abuse problem, it keeps shovelling the shit under the carpet.  Only one voice, a mother of a pupil, has had the bravery and foresight to say this in a comment on this blog this morning.  More parents need to say it and get the desperados in charge to face up to the College’s past and I am afraid, not too distant past either.  This hiding, ducking and diving from the elephant in the room is totally detrimental to any progress.

Anyway now that things have settled down on the internet, perhaps we can look at other issues that cropped up, like the Manchester Evening News report on Saturday, 4th May on the forthcoming court case against the Salford Diocese and the Board of Governors of the College and the fact that six of them resigned last Monday, 29th April and which was barely recorded in that torrent of comment and e-mails previously mentioned.  True to its word, they having informed me on Friday, the article was printed and true to the paper’s style it had some alarming errors in it.  It was written by its supposed chief investigative reporter Dan Thompson, who hardly lived up to his title as he was handed the information on a plate.  To me it was all old hat but one or two found it a powerful piece, however  it needed to be accurate as its main thrust was on the resigning of a bevy of governors on the foot of the court case.  So if some of my acquaintance found it powerful others also might have done so and it probably served its purpose  but I wish I could have written it.  Anyway it was better than that tawdry piece written by Keegan, the MEN’s top cub reporter and old Bedian two years ago last March about the Bishop’s halfhearted apology to the abused of Bede’s.

What I find strange about this Governor mass resignation is that they have all known about it since early April 2012, over a year ago.  Since then nine governors have resigned.  One other, a solicitor and probably aware of what was coming down the tracks resigned a month before in February 2012, three of the nine resigned in January this year and six resigned last Monday, 29th April 2013.  Thus leaving a rump of seven governors and a secretary.  Five clergy, two laymen, one of whom is the accountant and the lady secretary.  The clergy consist of one bishop, two monsignors and two priests, one of whom should not be there anyway as he supposedly has been relieved of his duties whilst facing impending charges of child sexual abuse.  All the governors with the exception of the offending priest, the accountant and the secretary are all in their 70s.  A strange elite to have in charge of a College that no longer declares its Catholic ethos.

Since these resigning governors have known about this situation for over 13 months it is a little disingenuous to suggest it is because of the court case.  The correct time for these people to have resigned would have been in February 2012 like the solicitor mentioned who must have given reasons for her dive.  By resigning now does not allow them to escape the rigour of the law.  All governors of all schools have to realise that when they take on the role of governor, they become responsible for “the sins of their fathers” or in other words previous governors who had a vicarious liability towards abused pupils.  It is no good jumping out the back window when the police come knocking on the door because there are half a dozen waiting in the backyard for you.

So to get back to the article, six and not seven governors resigned last week leaving a rump of eight and not ten remaining governors.  It also said that at the time of the abuse by Duggan et al, the College was run by the Diocese.  There might be a fine legal point here but who the hell is it run by now with a bishop, two monsignors and two priests on the board along with three also rans?

The article also said Mr Byrne resigned in March, it was registered in Companies House on 29th April, so that was when he and the five others resigned and it went on to say they resigned because of impending legal action, which as I said they had known about for over 13 months.  Well they resigned in two tranches, Messrs Carr, Keegan and Edwards on 28th January 2013 and Messrs Byrne, Moynihan, Gillespie, Driscoll, O’Flynn and Walsh on 29th April 2013 which hardly smacks of an agreed reason for going.  I think they resigned for different reasons and could I suggest one being a difference in opinion on how the school was being managed.

I would like to apologise for the posting of yesterday, originally I put it up as a bit of fun, having thought about it overnight I have withdrawn it, not from pressure of outside sources but because I do not want to offend anybody too much.  My feelings about the growing awareness of noncism and the idiot response by the authorities at putting senile old celebs up for punishment still apply as does my disgust at the behaviour of Catholic clerics over these past 50 years both in being nonces and for allowing and covering up the acts of nonces within their midst.

One of my daughters yesterday reminded me of two sentences attributed to that great Irish statesman of times past, Edmond Burke.  “All that is necessary for the triumph of evil, is for good men to do nothing” and also, “It is a general popular error to suppose the loudest complaints for the public, to be the most anxious for its welfare” and I have to say I have had some loud complainers these past few days.

I will now get back to my main purpose which is writing articles of interest to me, criticising where I see fit the actions of top management at St Bede’s College in Manchester and continuing to expose the omnipresence of abuse at the school in the hope that the authorities of the Salford Diocese and the school confront its presence over the last 60 years at least.

However what the posting did attract yesterday was two amazing witty comments from a person calling themselves Bonnet de Douche, it has a ladies light touch but I could be wrong.  Nobody so far has had the wit to realise its message so I will reprint it here for your delictation.  “An interesting piece, Paul.  So now Tarbie has claimed his place in the pantheon of nonce national treasures.  Well, the pantheon is not yet complete.  There are quite a few places vacant but with names clearly etched on the thrones.

I know of a dearer treasure, more beloved even than Tarbs, who has been brought in for questioning recently.  He fits your model exactly.  He wears a trouser.  He is very funny.  He has the obligatory OBE.  It is really disappointing as unlike Rolf and Jimmy and all the other seedy paedos, I actually liked this chap.  Having said that, you know, I am not at all surprised.

And I’ll tell you why I am not surprised.  Because a couple of years ago I read about a couple of trouser-wearing blokes (incidentally, not decorated) who were bessie mates with this particular national treasure.  And they had both been convicted of noncing and were at Her Majesty’s pleasure for the forseeable.  My suspicions were immediately raised about their friend who remained at large, presumably because of the decoration.  “Well” I thought.  “At best he has a weird taste in friends.  At worst, he is guilty by association”.  That was two years ago and my worst conclusion has been confirmed.  You won’t see it in the mainstream press for another few months yet.  And then I look at Tarbie’s golfing buddies and I’m afraid the finger of suspicion falls on every single one of them to.

And then I look at the Board of Governors, past and present………”

And a second comment “I am not one to indulge in tittle tattle.  I prefer more refined pursuits.  Poetry for example.

“Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?  Thou art more lovely and more temperate…..”

Who is this National Treasure?

Finally a very searching question from a Mr Sean Carr, who seems to have his ear to the ground.  It was asked of Mr Steve Driscoll, one time governor of St Bede’s but now out on a limb.  Mr Driscoll was persistent all weekend in commenting on this blog but now seems to have lost his voice or his keyboard.

Mr Carr writes “Mr Driscoll, a couple of questions if I may.  We’re you a Governor when Mr Barber was unceremoniously removed as Headmaster?  (He was, having attained the post, so he tells me, in January 2011)

Even if not, I’m sure you will know the answer to the next questions.

Was the headship advertised as per general best practice in the education sector?  Was the deputy headship advertised as above?

If the answer to either of these questions is no, then why not?”

So while an air of muteness prevails, we will awah until another day and by then hope to read Steve’s answer.

My blog must have caused some concern to DK because the latest news hitting the front line is that at  a recent briefing at Staff HQ he was taking the accusations one by one and quickly rubbishing them.  Apparently the assault by the Aussie in the Old Cock in Didsbury against an older member of staff reared its head and took up some space in the debate.  It seemed to amuse the staff in the way DK dealt with it.  Who can tell me who this cocky Aussie is, I cannot find out, people remain coy?

A whole raft of a report came out about DK’s two year sulk after he was turned down in his quest for headship when Barber was appointed in, I think, 2009.  DK was rampaging through the school boasting how he would do nothing to support the new head and everybody in the staff room stopped listening to his rant.  To me the information was old hat but it does show the particular nasty character traits in DK’s make-up.

It seems he has now learned off the Romans in that he has divided and conquered his opposition amongst the staff by promoting those not against him, these easily swayed but promoted non-entities are now showing fealty to their lord and master, the rest are not amused.

The real big news coming to the front line trenches is that Mr Byrne and Co, the five governors who have recently resigned actually signed their resignation papers on 24th March 2013 but these papers were only lodged at Companies House on 29th April.  I am sorry for getting that slightly wrong in previous blog postings.

However to take up the slack of these five resignees, two new governors were appointed on 19th March 2013, their papers only being posted at Companies House on 6th May 2013, last Monday.  And wait for it both are priests.  Lay men have more to lose than apply.

So we have a right old ecclesiastic knees-up at governors meetings now.  A lady secretary, an ancient lay man, a strutting accountant, a bishop, two monsignors and four priests.  One of whom, although still entitled, will have been relieved of his duties until further investigation has taken place into the sexual abuse of a young girl.  This gathering seems to confirm even more as to who owns and runs the school, none other than the Salford Diocese.

The two new priests are comparative young blood, undoubtedly old boys of the school but of that I am not altogether certain:-

1.) Fr Steve Parkinson.  Aged 43 with his address given as the College.  In fact according to the Directory of Priests for the Salford Diocese, Parkinson is none other than the Bishop’s Private Secretary, with his address as Wardley Hall, the Bishop’s mansion in Wardley, in Salford.  Recruiting Officer Brain did not go far when filling the recent draft.

2.) Fr Paul Daly. Age 48 of St Joseph’s Church in Heywood and Chaplain at Fairfield Hospital.  A busy man.  There was a Paul Joseph Daly who started at Bede’s in 1976 which matches this man’s age.

To me now more than ever this news suggests to me that their was policy disagreement on the board and these new men were brought in to provide a priestly majority to pass Quinlan’s and Kearney’s machinations.  I might be wrong and time will tell but don’t you think the parents have a right to help make decisions affecting the school, they after all are the pipers and possibly more importantly everything would be open and transparent.  However no matter how much the Church boasts of its openness and transparency, they still like to hold on to dark secrets and the fact that they and only they want to stay in charge.

One last thing that has not yet been sorted is Mr Steve Driscoll’s answer to Mr Carr.  Mr Driscoll was the vociferous former governor who was at the school in June 2011 when Mr Barber was booted.  Mr Carr asked him, why in line with best educational practise was the headship and deputy headship not advertised when Mr Barber left.  A simple question deserving a straight forward answer from a man who obviously likes his voice to be heard.  We are waiting Mr Driscoll, perhaps somebody connected with the school my take his place and answer.

After my recent postings on this remarkable court case the website – International Prisoners Of Conscience: Our Name Is Legion, For We Are Many  posted the following letter through my door which is all self explanatory.

I am 67 years and three months old and I have only just started to learn.  The first 65 years of my life was spent in solid acceptance of everything the Church and State threw at me.  I was ideal fodder for their evil ways, I was like 99% of the population, too busy skiving when I was young, too busy working and bringing up a family when I was more mature.  Life is so very short that it is only in my dotage have I had the power to think and question.  I am not now strong, I am old and weak but I have something stronger than a fist or a gun: I have a pen and a voice and I am not to old or weak to use them, the most powerful weapons in the world.

When I look back on my life, reasonably well educated, happily married for over 40 years, six children and seven grandchildren, living out my retirement on the banks of the Shannon River, having worked hard all my life and hopefully prepared myself for a comfortable old age, I should be content.  But I am not, I am seething with rage at the way the Church and the State have filled our minds with crap and tried and almost succeeded in persuading us that their machinations are for the general good.

They have turned a lot of decent people, because all folk are born decent, into, at best, sociopaths and at worse into psychopaths, with their doctrines and policies which do nothing but bring out the mean values in people.  The rest are probably the brain-dead or they are that mithered with learning to stay afloat that they cannot summon up the mental reserves to start questioning.

However there are a few who realise and say to themselves, ” Hey, wait a minute, what about…..?”  I do not mean the few good folk who mindlessly carry out acts of charity for their relatives and neighbours without asking why their actions are needed.  I am talking about those who want to stop the world now, clear out the dross who have the power and start again along the way to eternal light.

It is well known now to my regular readers, that I am lapsed, apostasised,  hopefully excommunicated from the Catholic Church after speaking out about the diabolical actions of their priests over now it is obvious, 2000 years.  Power breeds corruption, the church tells us priests are not men but men of God, imbued with the power of God and therefore in control of our lives which they can bend and shape to please their whim.

Now we are told as an excuse that it is not the officers of the Church we should be concentrating on, for they are only human, but the message of the Church.  Unfortunately the Church has been in the power of these men for 2000 years and they have shaped its message to suit themselves.  Past popes have proven to be the most evil of men with their political intrigues, their physical acts of savagery and their total disregard for personal celibacy, the thing they hold most dear.  The priests are the pope’s foot soldiers, mirrors of their boss, a more introspective bunch of emotionally immature thugs than you will meet anywhere.  So very, very few escape the papal net and allow themselves to work for the common good.

They have learnt that the family unit is the most powerful and important link in the chain of human life.  They have learnt that women are the fulcrum of families, families live and die by their women.  The Church has learnt how to control women, by subjugating and demonising them and then giving them full powers under the image of the Virgin Mary.  Men are left to go their own way, they know men do not think, they are naturally feral and just want pleasure.  It is certainly despised and rejected women who have kept the Church alive under the power of the priests for so long.

So after three and half years since my decree nisi came through that rid me of that dreadful spouse, the Holy Mother Church, I look at myself and do not see a worse man, if anything I am a better man, certainly at peace with myself, rid of mumbo jumbo and evil men.  I just wish my Damascene moment had come many years before it did.

Having divested myself of living on the potter’s wheel of religion, where holy men with besmirched hands are shaping our form, I now turn my head towards monarchy and politics and ask the question WHY?  In the case of royalty, why is this deranged Frankish family of sex craving lunatics held in such awe by so many.  A quick read into their illegitimate history’s reveals them to be people of the most despicable sort.  Given money for no apparent reason by a British Government intent on its own voyeuristic pleasures.

Since the sons of Scandanavian headmen decided to go a “viking” 1300 hundred or so years ago, we have been ruled by interfering, sex mad, unnatural, psychopathic foreigners intent on squeezing the life blood out of every Englishman gullible enough to bow and scrape.  Very few of them being able to speak English or at least more comfortable speaking in foreign tongues whilst lying in their love nests with whichever brother, sister, cousin, aunt, uncle, mother or father who chose to join them.  An incestuous idyll of indolent idiots is possibly the kindest thing to say of them.  Yet more than half the country has ignorant orgasms whenever they think of or see them.

The next in line are the politicians, this craven bunch of self-seeking demagogues, whose only ability is to be able to put more than three words together, some Socialist front bench wankers excepted.  These people have well worn zips and in the case of lady politicians tend to deport themselves, knickerless, for the same reason J. Savile wore track suit bottoms.

These people are so obvious, so sexually disorientated, that they regard the abnormal as normal, so mentally deranged that once elected they presume they can lie, steal, fornicate and abuse anyone and anything.  They consider the gift of power in the same way priests; it is there to open doors to corruption in all its forms but in a way they are possibly worse than clerics and royalty and the whole rigmarole of idolisers who go with them.  These people, these politicians fan the fires, put the fuel in place that keeps the whole horrible mess of these power crazed, plutocratic priests and palatines warm and insitu.

So I see it as my duty to my fellow man to go out of my way, to go that extra mile, to upset and infuriate and no longer be bullied by these mad phallic inspired gawks.  I will become a mental terrorist, a rural anarchist, never ever abiding by what they in their moments of perpendicular activity come up with, a martyr for decency, a brake on the world sliding into chaos designed by these degenerates.

I see the first rat is now finally out of the bag,  It seems what Robert Green, Timothy Rustige and to a lesser extent myself have been saying this past while is now bearing fruit.  Stuart MacFarlane is the first rotten apple to fall off the tree, the former Deputy Procurator Fiscal of Scotland during Elish Angiolini's tenure, let Douglas Haggarty be the next.  Good old Douglas is the current Technical Head of the Scottish Legal Aid  Board.

Douglas was caught bang to rights, shagging a young boy in the gent's toilets of a Glasgow shopping centre but all he got for his soliciting was a slap on the wrist.  No wonder poor old Robert Green has trouble navigating the legal aid jungle in his battle against the evil Angiolini when Douglas is in charge of the purse strings.  Paul MacBride, him of the meteoric rise in Scotland's legal elite, would have been another apple to fall but thankfully for him, God or some mysterious third party plucked him off the tree first whilst he was partying in the Punjab last year.  Read all about the tobogganing down hill fall of Scotland's legal eagles in this piece from Robert Green's Blog of yesterday.

Robert Green's Blog - Hollie Greig Campaign

Thursday, 16 May 2013

ANGIOLINI `S FORMER DEPUTY ADMITS TO DOWNLOADING 15,000 CHILD PORN IMAGES

http://scottishlaw.blogspot.com/2013/shame-for-crown-office-lord-advocate-as.html

If you have difficulty accessing this, it is reported in the Scottish Law Reporter, the Scottish Daily Mail and the BBC. The current Scottish regime is notoriously hostile to freedom of speech and freedom of the press, especially with regard to issues related to paedophile crime.

Stuart MacFarlane, who formerly served as Procurator Fiscal Depute under Elish Angiolini, when she was Lord Advocate, has confessed to possessing 15,000 pornographic images of girls between 3 and 14 as well as ones including sadism and sex with animals.

Additionally, it is understood that several other members at Angiolini`s former office have been suspended on the grounds on suspicion that they shared the images with MacFarlane.

MacFarlane was initially arrested for a past sex offence in 2005, but the Crown Office decided it was "not in the public interest" to prosecute him. It has now turned out that he has been, in fact, a serial paedophile criminal all along.

The initial offence was being caught in a sexual act with a female prostitute in Glasgow. Two police officers, Sgt Stewart and PC McCormack gave chase to MacFarlane, who ran away with his trousers around his ankles and both officers were injured as MacFarlane attempted to evade arrest. One might reasonably have expected a custodial sentence, but this was not to be, thanks to the intervention of Angiolini`s office, "in the public interest", naturally.

MacFarlane was assisted further by the services of the late Paul McBride QC.

Readers of this blog may recall that it was Mr McBride who helped sex offender Douglas Haggarty, current Technical Head of the Scottish Legal Aid Board, to avoid prison  after he was arrested for committing a sexual act with a boy in the gents` toilets in a Glasgow city centre store.

Such is the calibre of some of the individuals in positions of responsibility within the Scottish justice system. You could hardly make it up.

Paul McBride was somewhat mysteriously found dead in a hotel room in Pakistan last year, aged just 48.

It is now almost a year since I was released from jail. I still remember with appreciation the support I received from the officers and governors there and especially, the tremendous backing that was given to me by my fellow prisoners throughout the incarceration. It is also impossible for me to forget all the kindnesses and messages I received from so many people around the world, shocked by the Scottish authorities` contemptuous and hostile attitude towards disabled rape victim Hollie Greig and those who had the decency and courage to stand up for her.

I must also thank those wonderful people who publicly called for my release in various cities and the valiant Scots who walked the streets of Aberdeen and demonstrated on a number of occasions outside the prison. These are the true Scots, a credit to their fine country.

Scotland really is a wonderful nation, containing some of the most decent, brave and talented people you could find anywhere, but every country does have its unsavoury element and it seems that this small and unworthy minority has somehow reached the upper echelons of the Scottish system. Returning to my earlier comments, I have no hesitation in stating my view that in general, the Scots  locked up with me in prison were of superior character than many of those who actually run the country.

Since I left prison, of course, the Jimmy Savile and Hillsborough scandals have unravelled and people throughout Britain must be aware of the desperate and cynical measures adopted by the authorities to cover up criminal activity when it suits them to do so, including persecution of the victims themselves. Scotland is not alone in being riddled with corruption at a very high level.

Posted by Robert Green at21:20

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3 comments:

1. holliegreig justice16 May 2013 21:45

   A shocking situation,one has to wonder if Leask will cover this big story or will it be buried?

   http://holliegreigjustice.blogspot.co.uk/

   ReplyDelete

2. aware ofsound16 May 2013 21:53

   The last sentence says it all. We are facing a global corruption system. Cartels working in each others hands. Protecting each other. Feeding each other. I wish more people would explore those issues and for example visit your Blog taking some time to read something about what is truly going on. The child and animal abuse is horrible and it grows - although so called human rights and animal right organization grew as well. I have no doubts about people who are doing an intelligent and heart warming job about it. As you do Robert and for example a friend doing great stuff for animals. Each genuine effort is connected with the other one. And also each effort who runs after money and became the opposite of true help (some are not aware of course, but they should be). And if the innocent are abused - it abuses us all and everyone...thing. All affects all. How can one not "see" that. (?) There is only one power that overcomes fear. I imagine more and more people facing the dirt and stand up, giving some of their daily lives and energy in exploring what is really going on. Each one in his own way and ability. And for those who protect such incredible outstanding disgusting activities I can hardly find a name. SATYAGRAHA NON-VIOLENT NON-COOPERATION. It is more then worth to think about it. Explore it. Again and Again. Once the heart sees - it can never again become blind. Nice words came just into my mind - we also have to walk the talk - and - talk the walk - like here - in this great site....-.... I WAS SO FULL OF JOY ONE YEAR AGO FREE ROBERT GREEN - what a day

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3. Ally16 May 2013 22:23

   Hmmm, from a distance it appears that Rusty's Prisoners of Conscience crew’s speculation that under Angiolini's tenure, the Crown Office was a blatant sexual pervert / paedo protector – (the ongoing prosecution cases against Rusty for causing her ‘fear and alarm’ and Robert Green for ‘defamation’ besides) - might well bear a shedload of credible merit after all.
   Hopefully the current Scottish Law blog doesn't cause her undue stress and launch further raids and arrests by the Grampian Plod Squad.

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One of the things that have come out of the recent child abuse ring in Oxford and the allegations about abuse at Oxford and Cherwell Valley College which is gaining greater legs by the day is the preponderance of Common Purpose, the supposed”educational charity” that gathers some of the more gifted people together, brainwashes them and sends them out as future leaders of society.

Their agenda is Machiavellian in its scope and produces clever sociopaths to spread its gospel.  In England the charity is run by Julia Middleton and is financed by the government through donations from public bodies.

The present scandal only now appearing in the main stream media after months of it being talked about on UK Column and other alternative media outlets is the part played in both paedophile abuse rings by the following Common Purpose headliners, Joanna Simmons, boss of Oxford County Council, Sally Dicketts, boss of Oxford and Cherwell Valley College and Sarah Thornton, Chief Constable of Thames Valley Police.

An article in the blog AANGIRFAN, which is a very respectable and influential part of the alternative media world on the internet says “Police and Oxford protect paedophile rings” and goes on to say “Oxford, City of dreaming spires?  Not any more.  Today a centre for Satanic abuse, Common Purpose and paedophile networks”

But for you people who read this blog that statement will not matter too much because Oxford is 150 miles away and they are only a bunch of toffee nosed arses there.  Why should we care?  We can only see as far as the end of our noses judged by some of the comments posted last weekend.  However a comment caught my eye at the end of this article and it made me think of all you gratified parents and especially that benighted Kennedy woman, who wrote a letter to the Manchester Evening News after the resigning governors story, with kids at St Bede’s College in Manchester who seem happily alive to the marriage of Bede’s and Manchester City Football Club.  The comment says…”My son was targeted by a paedophile ring in Manchester.  He was part of a community based project funded by Manchester City Football Club and championed by Arlene MacCarthy, Euro MP….  This ring also includes a theatre company with unlimited access to children…..”

All I can say to you self satisfied parents of children at Bede’s is beware!!!  and for anybody with inside knowledge, who is this theatre company?

To everybody, use your own research skills.  Read up about the Oxford and Cherwell Valley College abuse, read up about Common Purpose, read up about community based projects by football clubs.  Think about what is happening around you and come to a decision.  There might not be much time left.