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THE UNBEARABLE LIGHTNESS OF BEING
Recently, I was privileged to undertake an assignment that saw me accompany a group of police officers in London undergoing training for the 'Close Protection' element of their firearms course. This effectively placed a team with their 'principal' and his day's itinerary with the objective of their securing and ensuring his safety in the face of an attack. They had a 'heads up' on his day, and their role was to act as they would were he a genuine V.I.P entitled to armed police protection. All they knew was that, at some point in the day, an attempt would be made upon his life, and it would be up to them to ensure it was unsuccessful. It takes a certain type of person to become a close protection officer. After all, when push comes to shove, should all else fail, the role basically means being prepared to stand between your principal, and the bullet with his name on it. This isn't the rarified world of the showbiz 'bodyguard', the man-mountains with more bulk than brain who keep their charges at arm's length from their public and scuffle with the photographers and journalists that made their employers famous. The guys and girls I was with were a world apart from all that, undercover police officers trusted to look after those members of government and royalty deemed likely to be a target for terrorists. And they work covertly. There, but not there, they're the men and women dressed appropriate to whatever situation their charge is in, their suits carefully tailored to conceal the tell-tale bulge of the sidearms and weapons they carry upon them at all times. Never more than an arm's length away from the person they are protecting, they blend in to the environment, hands always free, eyes constantly scanning for threats. It's nothing like the close protection I enjoyed in Baghdad - overt, in your face, and making a statement: Come and have a go if you think you're hard enough. Police CP officers here have to work within much tougher constraints, but such are the vagaries of democracy.
One of the venues that we knew the principal would be visiting that day was a livery company in the City of London. It had been secured earlier by other members of the team, but it was my first visit to the premises and I was drawn to one imposing room in particular. Upon the wall at the far end, covering its whole expanse, was a huge original Holbein painting dating from 1543, the last ever of Henry VIII and his court and valued at around £9m. But it wasn't that alone that captured my imagination - in the lower left hand corner of the painting was a scorch mark, originating from the Great Fire in 1666. For a moment, I felt light-headed at the enormity of what that painting represented. We hear the term 'priceless' bandied about so readily these days that it's devalued the word's currency. That picture, in that moment, provided me with the most graphic illustration of what the word truly means. It took my breath away to see at first hand such a huge and imposing work of art, which had survived through such so many turbulent periods in our history. The fact that this was toward the end of the day and we were expecting an armed assault at any moment fair faded into obscurity in the face of the enormity of that picture. The City – the area governed by the Corporation of London, that is - is the most amazing place. One of the places that we had had to recce and secure earlier in the day was the Guildhall, so that the Principal would have a 'sterile' environment to escape into if required. I'd not been in there since they completed the new gallery but again, some of those works of art were just incredible. There were countless Masters in there yet most of them had never previously been displayed to the public. The best bit though was the Roman Amphitheatre dug out in the basement, a find of such massive historical importance that the building was put up around and over it. The original stone foundations of the London Amphitheatre from around 1AD are still recognisable as such and it brings it home to you how privileged we are in the Capital, the weight of history upon our shoulders, each aspect of that heritage building and reinforcing our sense of national identity. Wonderful stuff. |
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1.9.04 13:08 |
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STUFF - AND A HIATUS
Typical really, isn't it? The past six weeks have seen a marked downturn in my industriousness, coinciding nicely with daughter A's school holidays, and some time off work taken by my better half P. Alarm goes off at 06:45 this morning and we're back to normality with a bump. For the past month or so, literally nothing of any import has happened for me work-wise. I've done no writiting other than here and the only phone calls I've received have been from people I want to speak to. This morning, A's back to school, P's back at work and my inbox is filling up with some genuinely pleasant missives: Can you take a Porsche 911 for a couple of days for a feature? (Er...like I need asking?!); Would you like to interview General Sir Peter de la Billiere in connection with his forthcoming book? (Hang on, let me check my diary!)... It's been a pleasant enough summer holiday for us. Haven't been anywhere far-flung (Iraq was warm enough for me and we've got The Lakes in October, Poland in November. A got a break, going to Spain with her grandparents though, so whilst we had stuff to attend to here, we did get to play at being a couple again). P flew down to stay with our friends in the Channel Islands a couple of weekends back - just a 48 hour break - which left me home alone with time on my hands. Nothing else for it - to Soho with Nick on the Friday night to sit in a bar in Old Compton St getting slowly drunk, catching up on life and people watching. Bliss. Whilst we're sat there, in come a team of drop-dead goregous twentysomethings, dressed identically in black. One walks up to us: "Hi, I'm Mary-Grace from Urban Chill. Would you like a 5 minute head, neck and shoulder massage? No set price, you pay me afterwards what you think it was worth". Well, what can you say to that, apart from "Yes"? She did a fantastic job of relaxing me still further, although it made conversation with Nick inordinately complex - try holding a train of thought whilst a pretty woman's running her fingers expertly across your neck and scalp! Thorougly recommend it if you find yourself similarly proposed to. When we left there, it was off to Melati - scene of the Blinks a week or so earlier, and the best garlic chicken in town. Well, I was sleeping alone, so why not? Awoke to streaming sunshine on the Saturday morning and switched the TV on just as Pinsent and co got underway in the Coxless Fours final. What a way to start the weekend, watching them snatch Gold from the Canadians in such understated style. A came back on the Sunday just before P arrived home (courtesy of private jet - nothing to do with us, natch) and we spent the following week just kicking our heels, with A and a friend at a drama school for the duration. Went to collect her last Friday and the principal asked to see us. "Very impressed with your daughter, would you consider letting us represent her and take her onto the books of our agency?" One stunned pair of parents and some paperwork later, A's now got an agent. I daresay nothing will come of it, but you never know. Proud doesn't even come close. Nick's wife Eva had her 18-year old neice, her boyfriend and his mate over from Spain for two weeks, and they went home last week. Saw a fair bit of them too - great company, great fun, a real breath of fresh air through our English lives. Cue lots of parties, barbecues, pub gardens of an evening, etc. Saw them off last Monday evening after a night of 'classic' Chinese take away - you know the sort of stuff you ordered when you first flew the nest? Sweet and sour chicken, chow mein, etc. And it was wonderful.
From left: Jose (friend), Samuel (boyfriend) and Rocio (Eva's neice). Alternatlively known as 'The Spans'. (Er...short for Spanish, natch). And so back to work. Or at least, that was the plan until I came into my office this morning, hence why I've been writing this on the laptop. Anybody who has cats will know that they have their routines from which they rarely deviate. They have their favourite places for sleeping, certain foods they'll eat or not, etc, etc, and rarely - if ever - do they stray from the path. So I was a little non-plussed to say the least when I came in to my office earlier to find this looking at me:
Yes, it's little Peps, one half of the feline duo that share our living space. Never in the previous 8 years as she so much as looked at that chair, far less sat on it. After I'd taken the picture, she promptly rolled over and went to sleep. So, no work for me today, then - well, I can hardly evict her from her slumber now, can I? A word to the wise re: this weekend. Remember 'Threads', that hideously plausible and shocking BBC TV docu-drama about the probable aftermath of a nuclear attack on Britain? It was shown at the height of the cold war, when the likelihood of a nuclear warhead hitting London courtesy of the U.S.S.R seemed more a question of 'when' than 'if' and it chilled me to the bone. Amazon describes it thus: Showing the after-effects of World War III on the United Kingdom by concentrating on two Sheffield families linked by an unplanned pregnancy, it illustrates the scientific, political, medical and social consequences of the severing of the many vital connective "threads" that support a Western society. Grim in a particularly 1980s way, this is a compulsive if uncomfortable watch and accomplishes a great deal without the distraction of spectacle, picking through all the melted milk bottles and firing squad traffic wardens to find the human horror at the heart of it all. Set the Video/Sky + for the UKTV Documentary channel at 21:00 on Saturday. I don't recall this film having been shown since it's original broadcast, but UKTV is showing it on Saturday. If you're in your 30s or older, it'll take you back to a time when the threat was all too real, when WWII-vintage air raid sirens used to sound weekly as they tested them for the attack that never arrived. Chilling stuff. Seeing as I'm prevented from accessing my workstation due to feline derring-do, I'm off to Nick's now to install and configure his new PC. Have a good weekend all. |
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3.9.04 10:55 |
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OF INCUBI, SUCCUBI AND OLD HAG SYNDROME - SLEEP PARALYSIS BY ANY OTHER NAME.
An entry from my journal, dated Sunday, 20th September, 1998. Reprinted verbatim: "I like to think of myself as a rational and pragmatic man, not easily given to panic – so I hope I never again have to live through what I experienced last night. I know that I had had a troubled and fitful night’s sleep – right up until 0430, when I awoke with a feeling of complete dread, an all-consuming fear not so much washing over me as drowning me in its folds. I wasn’t sweating. I wasn’t in a state of panic. But neither did I swim up from the depths of sleep for wakefulness to claim me in its normal, gentle manner, waking thoughts swimming into focus one by one. One minute I was asleep, the next – I was fully awake, 100% alert. And my God, I was scared. As I lay in bed, I was immediately aware of a malevolent presence in the room with me, an opprobrious thing whose existence placed chill in my heart. I lay there, unable to move, fearful of the dark thing that had invaded my life and awakened within me some primeval instinct of loathing. This was wrong – I can describe it in no other way. It was real – not the product of a fevered imagination or some demonic imp summoned from the gates of hell through the portal of a nightmare. Something was in the room with us that night. I would have dismissed it if it were not for the fact that, as I lay there, I felt P stir, and awake with a start. Exactly as had I. She lay beside me, fully awake, unspeaking but aware. And I felt her hand reach across and enfold mine – not a gesture of love, but of deep, unrelenting fear, a grip seeking the reassurance of another’s presence, demanding protection. It was a long, long time before I fell back into the protective blanket of sleep."#
I haven't given that episode much thought in the years since. And despite attempting to research my experience on the internet immediately afterwards, the web's fledgling status B.G (Before Google) meant there wasn't a great deal of information readily available. But Harmony's entry earlier today awoke this particular demon from its slumbers and caused me to revist that which had struck fear in my heart, in search of answers. Much coverage exists in respect of the phenomenon known as Incubus or Succubus, demons (male and female, respectively) who seek to have sexual intercourse with sleeping humans. These episodes have attracted comment in relation to wet dreams with men, and accounts are evident throughout history, in all religions - molestation from incubi and succubi have been reported at least since the middle ages. And by some accounts at least, we have the legendary demon-goddess Lilith to thank for inventing the ritual.
According to elements of rabbinical literature in ancient Judaic texts, Lilith was actually the original woman, Adam's first wife. She was a creature of great beauty, with long, flowing black hair. But, unlike the subservient Eve who was to replace her even before the ink had dried on the divorce papers, Lilith demanded to be treated as Adam's equal. She especially resented taking a position beneath him during sexual intercourse. This battle between the sexes led to Lilith storming out of paradise and an outraged Adam insisted that God make her come back. But Lilith refused and for her "sins" of independence, she was demonised and cast out. After that, she was referred to as the false, the wicked, the black, and the harlot. Gradually, she also developed special titles: Night Hag, Night Monster, and Queen of the Vampires are just a few. But Lilith's most notorious role was as the queen of all succubi.
Later, after Adam's separation from Eve, he was plagued by lust, his sex drive undiminished. His loneliness left him wide open and vulnerable to his ex-wife, the night-stalker. Lilith came to Adam in his sleep, teasing him with horrific, erotic dreams. Nightly, she rode him to his sexual climax, sucking the life force from the unsuspecting, sleeping first man. Legions of demons were born to Lilith from these nighttime attacks. Lilith released those wicked children, the lilim, upon the earth. Thus, the legend of the succubus was born.
Much of what is known of Lilith's legend originated in the writings of Jewish religious scholars, followers of the orthodox tenets of Judaism, which is not reknowned for its sexual liberation. It's likely that these men, toiling at interpreting the holy texts, were sexually repressed with just one impure thought leaving them feeling cursed and plagued by guilt. It's safe to assume that more than a few of these learned rabbis were having wet dreams.
Freud believed that dreams are a release of the tensions that build up inside us between the primitive, savage part of our psyches and the superego, which embodies the regimentation society places upon us. But, in the minds of those prudent rabbis, even dreaming of the forbidden act was enough to damn them. How much easier would it be to create a succubus demon, a Lilith, and blame all nighttime fantasies on her? It was a perfect solution, for men everywhere. And don't imagine that these rabbis were the only members of the male race forced to deny their natural passions. In the Middle Ages, celibate monks struggled against these nighttime occurrences by sleeping with their crucifix-clutching hands crossed over their genitals.
The 1981 movie 'The Entity' starring Barbara Hershey was based on a true, documented case of a Californian woman who was repeatedly raped in her home by an unseen force. And recently, Lucy Liu, one of the co-stars of “Ally McBeal,” told Us magazine of a sexual encounter with a mysterious spirit. “I was sleeping on my futon,” Liu said, “and some sort of spirit came down from God knows where and made love to me. It was sheer bliss. I felt everything. I climaxed. And then he floated away. Something came down and touched me, and now it watches over me.” Sadly, for me, there was no sexual element to the terror which siezed me on the occasion referred to in my journal - just sheer terror, and the certainty that something not of this world was with me that night. It would appear that what both Harmony and I fell victim to is a related phenomenon known as "Old Hag Syndrome".
This is characterised by the victim feeling the presence of some entity lying heavily on top of him/her, making breathing difficult, and it is sometimes even accompanied by feelings of strangulation, but without the sexual component of the incubus or succubus. William Shakespeare mentions this phenomenon in Act 1, Scene 4 of Romeo and Juliet: "This is the hag, when maids lie on their backs, That presses them, and learns them first to bear, Making them women of good carriage." Other notable authors, such as Edgar Alan Poe and Herman Melville in his epic novel, Moby Dick also refer to "Old Hag" syndrome. Whatever you want to call it, the episodes all share common characteristics; as I experienced, the victim awakes with all senses - sight, hearing, physical sensation and smell - fully operating but with complete physical paralysis. Often, the victim feels a crushing weight on his chest, making it difficult to breathe. The sufferer often senses a malevolent presence - either sitting on his chest, deliberately suffocating the sufferer, or sensed as a shadowy, evil presence in the room. Victims are breathless from terror and from the unseen "hag" crushing or squeezing the breath from their bodies. Clearly there has to be a more rational explanation for these episodes than those proffered by ancient religious texts, and modern science is happy to oblige. Medical science suggests there is a physiological elucidation for both phenomena, and lends them the more pedestrian definition of Sleep Paralysis, or 'Night Terrors' - take your pick. Sleep paralysis is a phenomenon sometimes referred to as a "waking dream." This is a twilight state in which our dreams are so vivid and bizarre, they seem terrifyingly real. These dreams are powerful, as the persistence of the myth demonstrates.
Sleep paralysis strikes during the transition between REM sleep and becoming fully awake. While you are in REM sleep, your body temporarily paralyses you - this is to safeguard you from acting out your dreams. But occasionally something short-circuits in the mechanism that controls the waking and sleeping states. We wake up, or feel as if we have awakened, but the body hasn't yet switched off the paralysation that protects us in our sleeping world. Often, our dreams haven't been totally switched off either. And since neither our essential organs nor our eyes are paralysed whilst we sleep, the victim's eyes can be wide open. He can literally watch his nightmare unfold around him in the waking world. The waking brain tries to find a rational explanation for this paralysis and so invents the evil presence or entity. Another study theorises that the profound feeling of paralysis could be a latent human form of “tonic immobility,” the action of feigning death that prey animals often rely on when stalked, chased, seized, and attacked – a strategy of last resort induced by fear or restraint. David J. Hufford is Professor and Director at the Doctors Kienle Centre for Humanistic Medicine at the Penn State College of Medicine. In his book, The Terror That Comes in the Night, Hufford notes the remarkably consistent content of the hallucinations of victims of sleep paralysis. He is especially amazed at the similarities of those who have claimed to see the Old Hag. Hufford points out that the hag attacks have been documented in countries all over the world. Many of the victims had no knowledge of the folklore surrounding these attacks. Perhaps the explanation to that lies in Carl Jung's theory of consciousness. Jung believed that when our dream visions rise from the personal unconscious, they reveal themselves through personalised associations, recollections, and reflections. But Jung also spoke of the collective unconscious. The collective unconscious is a function not of biography but of biology. To this area of the psyche Jung ascribed those dreams and patterns of symbolism that have a transpersonal quality. So, is the Old Hag Syndrome, and the legend of Lilith just that - a myth - or an over-achieving bad dream? And are Incubi and Succubi simply terms from a less scientific age to define experiences with a physiological origin? Perhaps the legend of Lilith can assist here, for it's written that Lilith will plague man until the end of the earth. Perhaps she will. After all, Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. |
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6.9.04 18:39 |
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U.S BROADCASTERS IGNORE THE DISABLED
From Stuart Hughes and others today: The Olympics were a huge success for American broadcaster NBC, which attracted something like 200 million viewers to its coverage of Athens 2004. The so-called "halo effect" also boosted other channels and programmes and helped ensure the widespread success of the XXVIII Olympiad after a shaky start.
Lukas Christen of Switzerland celebrates winning the Gold medal in the men’s 200 m T42 final during the Sydney 2000 Paralympic Games. This is nothing short of a national disgrace. Edit, Wednesday, September 8th, 2004: I've been doing some more research on the Paralympics since I wrote this entry and have discovered some interesting facts. |
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7.9.04 14:44 |
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YOU COULDN'T MAKE IT UP
I had a commission for a photoshoot in London yesterday with a long-standing client based in SE1. Gorgeous day, bright sunshine, the client wanted some PR-type shots for a new website and corporate brochure - bread and butter stuff for any snapper, but it's what you make it that defines what you get out of it. I know the guys and girls at this company well - after all, I landed the contract because once upon a time, in the life I had prior to this one, I was in the direct employ of the MD. So it's pretty laid back - turn up, make a drink, chat to everyone in the office and generally acquaint myself with what's been going on since I was last there. One of the guys who works on the sales team is drop-dead gorgeous; a spit of David Beckham in looks department if you like that sort of thing. Blokes love him because he's a great fella and girls...well, girls just come over all unnecessary. He's 6'1", 22 years old and a nicer guy you couldn't wish to meet (No girls, he's not gay and yes, he's in a long-term, happy relationship). He also plays golf off a handicap of 5, so he's a bit tasty on the fairways. He's done the odd bit of modelling (nothing serious, just a bit here and there for Select!). In short, it makes my life a lot easier - he's there, he knows the company, but more importantly, he knows how act in front of a camera lens. The plan is simple - me, him and a driver provided by the client who would drive us to various venues around the Capital for the shoots (outside locations - city and Canary Wharf). We set off - minus Beckham-alike who's running late and says he'll meet us there. As we drive, conversation is easy, but the traffic isn't. In fact, Southwark St is solid westbound. That's okay, though, we want to turn right into it headed eastbound toward London Bridge. A Mercedes driver flashes stuck in the westbound traffic on Southwark St creates a gap and flashes us to edge out across his path. Result - we do so cautiously, stopping with the nose of our vehicle just shy of the broken white lines. We pause there as a cyclist, filtering along the white line on the offside of the stationary traffic crosses our path. Driver looks right ready to move forward, then left and subconciously, I do the same. Then time becomes elastic and I see, from the periphery of my vision, a scooter being ridden at speed along the white line towards us. He's filtering - riding on the offside of the stationary traffic, a legal but risky manoeuvre. It's a simple enough exercise - cover the brakes and keep your wits around you, backing off whenever a junction appears on your nearside. Simple really - junctions mean cars wanting to edge out. Traffic parts to allow cars through and if you're riding down the middle of the road and not looking, they're going to be blocking your path. Which is what happened. Matey boy on the scooter is riding - and then he isn't. There's a huge bang and I see him part from his machine and arc gracefully in a path across our bonnet, followed somewhat implausibly by his scooter which catapults across our path. My eyes follow his trajectory some thirty feet along the road before he comes down to earth, a meeting of soft, pink body with cold, hard tarmac. he skids across the road coming to rest with his head against the nearside kerb, some 10 feet or so ahead of his bike. And time returns to normality. The driver is in a mess; shock. He goes to get out of the vehicle where we are and I coax him to move forwards so we aren't causing an obstruction; London traffic waits for nobody, accident or not. He parks and we exit the vehicle as witnesses rush forward. The rider is down but not out, sitting up. He's only a kid - can't be any more than 17. The mangled heap of steel, plastic and rubber alongside him was a scooter just a few seconds ago. Now, it's a ready made installation, a worthy potential addition to the eclectic contemporary art collection amassed by Charles Saatchi. A solitary 'L' plate adorns what was the front.
An ambulance arrives. Witnesses rush over, proffering their details; "Don't worry mate, I saw everything. Scooter's fault, you didn't stand a chance", like a mantra, over and over again. In the way of London drivers, they hurriedly recite details before fleeing - everyone has somewhere to be and they were meant to be there ages ago; "...it's the traffic see, I'm late as it is". Driver sits down. I grab my notebook and take details, record phone numbers, addresses, sketch a map of the scene. Grab my camera and record it. The police arrive, the ambulance leaves. Two squad cars from the City of London force; "We're covering for the Met because they've got nobody available." They're a credit to their force; polite, considerate, helpful. They measure, look, feel and record. Estimate, recreate, imagine. It's straightforward enough for them but time consuming. An hour we spend at the roadside, seeking shelter from the unseasonably hot weather as statements are taken from myself and the driver. Traffic backs up; there's nothing to see, but might as well look anyway, eh? Several further accidents are narrowly avoided as drivers crane their necks for a better view.
Two hours after setting off, we've covered less than a mile and achieved nothing. Remarkably, our vehicle is unmarked save for a missing numberplate. No scratches, no marks, no dents. The scooter's pannier has glanced our front bumper, but its a new pedestrian-friendly design and has done its job well. It's a new vehicle and it still looks new. It's more than can be said for its driver; the police are finished and they shake hands with us before departing. I drive us back to the office. Somewhat later than planned, I ventured out again, minus the driver, to get the photoshoot sorted. Beckham-alike drives. City - strike a pose, smile, flash, click. Drive. Canary wharf - pose, smile, flash, click. "Give me stern" - glower, flash, click. Done. I head off to another meeting in Old Street; Becks heads back. More to do, so I'll have to return - another day, another fee. Just another average day in London. |
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10.9.04 11:25 |
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PUPPY SHOOTS MAN TO SAVE LITTER MATES
I've written previously of my ability to compartmentalise - various assignments at the sharp end with the emergency services, and reporting from a war zone have have aided me there - but when it comes to animals, I find it nigh on impossible to push my emotions aside, especially where their suffering emanates from human hands. Anybody watching Monday's retrospective episode of the BBC's Animal Hospital, which focused on some of the worst cases of cruelty ever seen in the UK can't fail to have been moved by what they saw. The ire that I feel toward the sick individuals who visit cruelty towards animals lives in the same place that harbours my feelings towards bullies, and all those who prey on anybody weaker than themselves. It's a layer cake; pass down through the contempt, the anger, the simmering resentment and intense hatred and you'll arrive at that place where nasty things happen in my mind's eye. It's generally enough that animals are rescued and recover from the distress that humans blight their lives with, but it's almost unheard of for an animal to turn the tables and fight back, visiting retribution upon those wishing it harm. Which makes the following story I picked up from Reuters' newswire all the sweeter. Jerry Bradford of Pensacola, Florida, had 7 mixed-breed German Shepherd puppies that he decided he didn't want to raise. Where most people would head off to their nearest Animal Shelter or place an advert in the local paper, Bradford, 37, decided to kill them, so he carefully loaded up his revolver with .38 calibre bullets. He dug a shallow grave outside his home and methodically began killing the pups in cold blood. That's when things started to go wrong for Jerry. Having killed three of the seven pups and deposited them in the ground, Bradford was holding a fourth in his left hand, the revolver in his right hand and a fifth puppy in his arms. Anyone who's picked up more than one feisty puppy at a time will know how difficult this is; a sackful of ferrets is tame by comparison. As the puppies fought to struggle free, the one in his hand put its paw on the gun's trigger. The gun discharged, shooting Bradford through the wrist.
Requiring medical attention, Bradford went to the local hospital where doctors treated the gunshot wound and notified authorities. According to the County Sherrif's Office, Bradford will be charged with the animal cruelty, a felony crime. The remaining puppies, plus their mother were all taken to the Escambia County Animal Control facility, where they are being made available for adoption. The names of the puppies were being withheld. "They are minors," said sheriff spokesman Sgt. Ted Roy. "Even in dog years." Sometimes, justice comes in the strangest forms. |
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10.9.04 13:57 |
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9/11: A RETROSPECTIVE
After today, there will be no more memorials to mark the events that changed the world on the actual site of the World Trade Cenre. By the time the fourth anniversary rolls around, work on the new tower, designed to replace those destroyed by terrorists, will mean that access to Ground Zero is not possible. In it's own way then, this, the third anniversary of the day terrorists killed almost 3,000 people, marks a watershed of a kind, another step in the path of moving forwards. I've written previously of my own thoughts on the events of the day itself, and have little of note to add to the reams of information already out there. That said however, I'm indebted to Lisa for a brilliantly researched entry on her blog, which pulls together a number of disparate links into a cohesive and informative piece on the attacks, which I've copied in part below. An overview from USA Today of the events of of 9/11. Interviews, video and interactive documentaries on every aspect of the attacks. Live coverage of the airliners hitting the World Trade Centre's South Tower (Some viewers might find this video disturbing). Recording from Flight 93's communication with Air Traffic Control
More about Flight 93's attempt to thwart the highjackers' efforts. "It was the only one of the four planes that did not reach its target. This was apparently because passengers, alerted through phone calls, attempted to subdue the hijackers. The hijackers are thought to have crashed the plane to keep the passengers from gaining control." American Airlines Flight 11: "At 8:46 AM EDT the Boeing 767-223ER, N334AA, was deliberately crashed into the north side of the north tower of the World Trade Center approximately between the 94 and 98 floors. This was the first crash in the attacks of the day. The plane was carrying 81 passengers (including the 5 hijackers) and 11 crew. All on board along with many hundreds in the building were killed, and the tower later collapsed, killing hundreds more." "At approximately 9:03 AM EDT, Flight 175 was crashed into the south side of the southern tower of the World Trade Center, between floors 78 and 84. The plane was carrying 56 passengers (including the 5 hijackers) and 9 crew members. There were no survivors." "American Airlines Flight 77 crashed into the western side of The Pentagon in Washington, DC at 9:37 AM EDT, killing all of its 58 passengers (including the hijackers) and 6 crew members. Professionals who came to the scene to help. Reading from Chapter 9 of "City in the Sky" (you may have to register to read this. Registration is free.) A very unusual view of the planes hitting the tower (first aircraft striking the North Tower especially - until the discovery of this video footage, there was only one other film that had captured this moment). Howard Lutnik of Cantor Fitzgerald gives an interview on 10th September, 2002. Are terrorists targetting Russia now? |
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11.9.04 09:47 |
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