Gwent Police and Senior Mental Health Managers Meeting

gwent police hq

 

On 26/07/17 I wrote to Gwent Police and senior Aneurin Bevan University Health Board Trust Mental Health Nursing Manager, Perry Attwell.

 

Hi Perry and Gwent Police,

I have been wanting to write to you, with regard to the current status of my detainment under section of the mental health act at my home address.

I have been subjected to the mental health act since 2nd April 1997. I have never been violent towards the police nor mental health workers during the 20 years in which I have been treated. At present, I feel that there is an over-reaction to me when I am processed for sectioning under the mental health act. There are up to 50 police officers in my street during a sectioning and the whole process is very daunting both for myself and also the officers. I am transferred in the back of the police van like a common prisoner and feel that this aggravated my early stay in hospital. As I am never aggressive, I am asking you that, for any potential future assessments, we have a low key approach whereby, if necessary the police can attend in a single car and transfer me in the back of a car, humanely, and so that my mental health in the community is preserved for any potential hospital assessment. I feel that as things stand, with such a hullabaloo raised, it doesn’t assist me nor my local community in the whole process. These most recent hospitalizations have cost me my career at university and I am really struggling to rebuild my life. I am never going to be violent or troublesome and do not wish to be portrayed in a bad light in my neighborhood with a vast police presence and a seemingly violent capture ahead of any mental hospital admittances. Also, Perry Attwell has mentioned to me himself that he would be arranging for me to be transferred directly to Talygarn and not being sent to the processing unit at St Cadoc’s. I ask for a response to this letter as I wish to improve the oft fractured relations I have with this whole service as part of my processing under the Mental Health Act. Theresa May says that she wishes to improve Human Rights for mental patients and here I believe that, at grass roots, I am helping to do just that.

Regards

Wesley Gerrard

 

After a very long delay and much avoidance by the requested parties to attend this meeting, I finally managed to sit down and meet with mental health managers and police in an attempt to diffuse the whole of my mental health situation / saga. Here is a report I have prepared  about this meeting:

 

After waiting impatiently for this meeting since I first tried to arrange it last July, I finally managed to get the chance to sit down with some of the local police and senior mental health management on Thursday, 26th October 2017 at Caldicot Library. I had wanted to begin a dialogue so as to analyze exactly what was happening in both the police and mental health services during the far too often sectioning process that they have been using on me for a number of years. It seems that not twelve months can go by without me being aggressively taken out of my home or off the street and removed to Talygarn and St Cadoc’s for lengthy stays. Every time I come before an appeals court these days I win my case so it is becoming ever more annoying that the police and mental health community teams plus psychiatrists in the hospital are persisting in performing these sections. It is so disruptive to me and has continued for over 20 years and I do not intend for it to go on any longer. I am trying to nip the whole saga in the bud and this meeting, whilst I am free and comfortable at home, I felt would be a good way of starting a constructive dialogue to help end the process. Senior manager Perry Atwell, has been taking an active role during my care in recent years and he, for one, is hoping to end the repeat process of me being taken into hospital as he on the whole feels it unnecessary. Unfortunately Perry has now retired from his senior management role and Anne James has taken his place. I have known Anne for most of the 20 years for which I have been a patient.

Anne James was present at the meeting. Also, my social worker / care co-ordinator, Elen Mcelroy. Plus psychologist John Baird (about to retire). Representing Gwent police there were two WPCs. I didn’t manage to record their names although I was aware of one as she has previously processed me during a detainment. The one WPC was senior mental health representative for the whole of Gwent. The other WPC was specifically the mental health liaison officer for my local area.

The whole atmosphere was pretty hostile from the start. I explained some of my grievances. The police denied tasering me etc. They denied assaulting me in the cells. Everyone was pretty much of the steadfast opinion that there has been no wrongdoing on behalf of the powers that be and that all that had been done was necessary. Anne James admitted that in the twenty years I have NEVER once been a danger to myself or others. I have though been sectioned and get regularly aggressively sectioned on no fewer than fifty occasions. The whole criteria of being sectioned means that you have to present as a danger to yourself or others. Yet, here on record, they have admitted that this has never been the case. The police corroborated that I have never been violent to them in any way nor have I any form of criminal record.

The police stated that they have no interest in fighting crime in the local area any more. They said that nowadays their policing was to be targeted towards the policing of vulnerable people.

They said that the main reason of me being violently sectioned by them was that in their view, when they turn up to my property they feel that I am intimidating in character towards them. I explained that I was not trying to intimidate them but that based on the history of what they have been doing to me for years that I am genuinely in fear for my life when they turn up. I cannot go past a police officer or car in the street without experiencing a panic attack through fear of them. It is more them who are intimidating me and the facts and evidence will verify this.

They said that when a magistrate passes an order they are just doing their jobs. I asked as to why they were using this system which is open to corruption. I do not get processed fairly under the mental health act as it is supposed to be.

They said that the social workers involved – mainly Linda Price – have a way of perceiving that I might be perceiving something that might make me mentally ill and they apply to judges for these orders.

In other words I am being detained and sectioned and locked away based on pure speculation of Orwellian ‘thought crime’.

It is illegal, unjust and wrong and must be stopped somehow. It is no way for me to live in constant fear from these hideous people.

I have never experienced the symptoms of any of the diagnosed mental illnesses they accuse me of. I have never sought treatment from them. I never take their medications willingly. It is all done against my will and consent and by using violent force. It has simply gone on for too long.

They have said that the whole process will not be stopped, will not go away and will simply intensify in the years ahead. They want to have more access to me in the community and to lock me away more regularly.

To be honest, the whole meeting was a shambles, very much what I expect from a broken dilapidated system that has perpetually abused me for years on end.

There must be some form of political / legal solution to this.

I am hoping that someone will be able to assist me in getting a better result from this attempt to diffuse the situation and also to look at the wider picture of how this system and its actors might be detrimentally affecting the lives of other victims.

At the very least I demand a full investigation into local mental health services and practices. If they have no evidence for their persecution of me then it should surely be stopped once and for all. They will end up killing me one way or another if they are allowed to proceed and we are not some third world country with no legal process or 21st century morals. We are supposed to be a democracy where freedom is almost guaranteed.

‘I will not cease from mental fight, nor shall my sword sleep in its hand.’

Police Brutality and Mental Health – PART 3

police with taser

I’ve written two articles already on policing and mental health. The impact of this particular episode still hasn’t quite sunk in. Bang out of order is obviously one of my judgements. Equally, writing this blog, just knowing firsthand exactly what the British police are capable of, means that my life is in potential danger as something equally as bad or worse could quite easily happen at any time.

I was just reading a fellow DJ’s Facebook about returning home to a key UK airport to see heavily armed police officers ‘greeting’ people as they got off the plane. OK. We may be on whatever alert, but I do passionately disagree with the arming of the police. Unless laws are passed for the general public to have the right to bear arms, it is unfair to arm a civilian force. Army and other military services, by all means, weapons are a necessity. But not the police. They do not have responsible enough a mentality to be given the easy power over life and death that a trigger brings. I speak from experience.

If you actually ever look at the mental health act, when you are admitted to a hospital or sectioned, you are supposed to go through a process of assessment. There are balances and checks in place. I do believe that the process is unfair as it stands. However, over the years the mental health system has been opening up to allow the police more and more involvement and they more or less have a free reign today. The ‘Place Of Safety’ in the legislation allows them to use their premises as mental hospital holding cells. As soon as I heard of the police being armed with tasers I was against the idea. I don’t believe that any form of weapon can be safely deemed as providing non-lethal force, in particular a ballistic weapon. it is no surprise to me that there are so many deaths caused by tasers.

I was spending the evening in my home studio, making music. I use Ableton and have various MIDI instruments that plug into it. I was having a quiet jam on my keyboard and laying down the foundations of a new tune. It’s quite a creative process, making music and is very tranquil and relaxing as a producer, although repetitively listening to the same beat patterns as you build up a track from scratch can be frustrating for other people to listen to. My missus has to put up with a lot of this. On that particular evening, she decided to pop out to see her friend down the road. Nicola went and I carried on making music. I powered down the studio for a while and went out to the kitchen to grab a bite to eat. I was in my dressing gown, as I often am at home. As I returned from the kitchen into my living room, all of a sudden I felt a jolt and these wires seemed to be coming out of nowhere at me. I looked down and I had some sharp metallic objects in my heart, with cables attached that were whirling around and heading for me. I immediately, AND I MEAN IMMEDIATELY, ripped at my chest to remove these objects. The wires came flying out and scattered away, off to my left. I had thought I was alone in the flat. I couldn’t get these metal rods out of my chest. Suddenly there was a clatter at the front door as it was being forced open. I ran over to the door, opened it quickly as the intruders were trying to break in and strongly slammed it shut on the intruders and double locked it. They couldn’t get in.

I still had the metal in my chest and wanted it out. It was in my heart, two tiny rods of aluminium-looking, man-made material, with bits of plastic and other junk attached. I knew who the intruders were now, as obviously, I had seen them when I shut the door. It was the police. They now had a battering ram to the door and were attempting to force it; yet couldn’t. They couldn’t muster the strength. There was a hell of a noise coming from them. Lots of shouting and panic. I was alone in my home and I have to say, was truly scared. This was a life or death situation. I took and air rifle pellet in my backside as a kid but this was the first time I had been shot with a gun. I finally just ripped at the metal and they were barbed, fish-hook like prongs that were retaining the rods in my chest. They were almost impossible to remove. I realised that it was a taser that had been fired at me and was thanking my lucky stars that I had managed to rip the wires out prior to the post-impact electric shock being discharged. The idiots had not only randomly shot an unarmed man, minding his own business, in his own home, but they had also misfired their own weapon. I didn’t have any weapons in my home to defend myself and was left to the mercy of what happened when they eventually got in. Alone, with no witnesses, the panic set in. I had removed the metal as best I could and realised that I wasn’t going to die from the first shot. Blood was gushing out of the open wound and it bloody well stung, like never before. It’s a truly horrible feeling, reminded me of how you feel inside your body, under the cosh of the biological weapons they use in mental health treatment. It’s just that this was exterior, on the body, and not inside.

I decided that I needed to inform the public in order to protect myself. I was still trying to figure out how they had shot the weapon. They weren’t inside the house. Either they had fired through the open front window or had fired through the letter box. Either way, there was no warning, either in human voice or any noise at all. I knew they had tried to assassinate me and I just didn’t want to be a random statistic of police murder. I looked out the front room window and, there was, I’d estimate, about 50 or so police officers. All in uniform, milling around. I screamed at the top of my lungs: “HELP!!!” “I’ve Been Shot!” – I felt that I had to let people know. In a life or death situation you have tremendous power in your voice. Despite having a serious traumatic injury to my chest, I shouted louder than I’d ever shouted before. I decided that I would scream the neighbourhood, the whole town, down. I thought of every person I knew nearby, and others in the locality further afield. I was even screaming to friends far away in London, lest my voice should carry as far as it seemed to be able to. Members of the public started to gather and the police were sort of shepherding them around and trying to clear the vicinity. I knew they were up for another pop at me that night. Someone suggested that I jump out of the window but I didn’t really fancy flying out of the flats into a bunch of armed police for obvious safety reasons. There were witnesses now to me being alive. I decided to go off to my bedroom and try to relax in bed. They were still bashing hell out of the door and it would give at any moment. I felt that even the most heartless copper ain’t just going to shoot an unarmed man, naked in his own bed, in cold blood. I lay in bed, pretty sure that my time on this planet was coming to a close.  I heard the front door give and was just hoping that the duvet would protect against any further taser shots. I’ve taken a full mains electric shock before, whilst setting up DJ equipment, and electric shocks are not pleasant. Your heart has a weakness after one full shock and is never quite the same.

riot police

It took ages for them to open the bedroom door after entering the building. I could hear loads of noise. Movement of people. Suddenly a plastic shield came through the door and hordes of riot police stormed into my bedroom, their shiny metal helmets peaking above the heavy-duty reinforced, hardened plastic riot shields. I’d never been in a riot or demonstration so had only ever seen riot police on TV or in photographs or internet videos. They surrounded the bed with their shields protecting them completely. I was just glad that they hadn’t shot me and I couldn’t see any weapons. I just stayed calm and quiet and then about 8 of them just dived on me, riots shields down, and were trying to squash / suffocate me. They just bounced off me really and it was a non-effective whatever-it-was-supposed-to-be. They all seemed pretty much in a right panic. Eventually, one broke the silence and I realised he was Scottish.

I said ‘Hi, Are you Scottish?’

He said ‘Yes’

I said ‘Where are you from’.

He said ‘Glasgow’

I said ‘Ah, you’ve come a long way.’ Do you support Rangers or Celtic?’

He said, rather proudly, ‘Rangers’

rangers fc

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Being a Liverpool fan, there are a lot of links between Rangers and Celtic and our club. I just started having a conversation with this guy from out of town as his mates continued to act silly with their weapons etc.  I have to be fair to this guy. He did look a bit shocked and disillusioned with the whole situation.

Someone else took command as they did some sort of hold on me and started lifting me out of bed. They have manoevres, these riot police and I was surrounded by large plastic shields at all times. As I was naked they decided it was appropriate to get me dressed. It’s a surreal experience, I can tell you. Watching a bunch of armed, grown men with plastic shields and helmets and sparkly badges with ‘police’ on, fish around your bedroom, while you’re naked, boxed in by plastic, with blood pissing out of your chest from a misfired taser. I explained to the guy, that the Bermuda Shorts he dug out of my drawer. just didn’t fit me. I hadn’t worn them since I was about 12. I was trying to help the situation. stay calm, release the pressure. Talk to a copper on duty though and they think you’re trying to be smart. They got heavy handed and were forcing me into the shorts. In the end, as we had now shuffled into my living room, a couple of them realised that the shorts just weren’t going on and it wasn’t the best thing to do to a man in his own home, forcibly dress him into child’s clothes. I just kept saying softly, ‘just let me put the shorts on’ They were petrified and trying to cover up what was obviously quite an extreme incident. Someone managed to fetch another pair of shorts from back in the bedroom. I was getting frustrated because they were in my living room causing havoc. They broke my computer system, my studio monitor speakers and ripped all my wiring out. Just out-and-out criminal vandals. I cannot believe how inhumane these people are. Eventually I had a pair of surf shorts on. It was a freezing cold night. I was bleeding, been shot in the chest, attacked by riot police and now I was to be dragged into the middle of my neighbourhood in the dead of night in a pair of surf shorts. Not very practical, Mr Policeman, really? Simple health training. Normally when someone is shot, first aid is applied, especially if the weapon has, perhaps, misfired? They seemed more keen on removing the remnants of the taser in my front room than anything else. Bloody wires everywhere.

If their idea of helping a shot human is to help him get dressed in his old shorts, then they really need to go back to the drawing board. Emergency services? it’s no wonder we have so many bloody disasters in this country. They are incompetent. It’s just inappropriate. How are this lot supposed to deal with an actual riot where the people are actually committed to achieving their aims? They don’t even understand how to get dressed? I can just picture police across the country waking up every morning for mummy to slip on their pants for them and help them get to the potty toilet. They couldn’t blow out a candle with a fire extinguisher: the idiots!

Outside the property, and there were lots of people. The fear for my life hadn’t quite dissipated. Obviously, when you are being kidnapped after being shot, the fear doesn’t erode at all really. Until I get home to my bedroom after the whole charade, however much time it takes, everything is by force, and everyone can be regarded as an unnatural encounter.

Back of the van. I just zoned out in the van. The pain in my heart was great and I know that I was at risk of heart failure. I was not aware of any rulebook to guide you from, when you are shot. It doesn’t help that you aren’t getting immediate medical assistance and I will be eternally grateful to the police for that. Handcuffed (incidentally they went on back in the bedroom – yet still they had to crush me with the riot shields), I was banged into the back of a van. A long time to get going as they were doing their ‘hush, hush, nice police in front of the public operation’ to ease the crowded streets into believing that they were somehow doing some form of fitful employment and public service.

By the time we reached our destination, I just felt like it would be safer to feign unconsciousness and just to fall out of the back of the van when the doors opened, just in case there were any surprises awaiting. It’s a complete bastard, having an open chest wound with shrapnel remnants in it and being handcuffed behind your back, unable to tend to your own wounds. We were at the Royal Gwent hospital in Newport and I was wheel-chaired in to a new little corner of it, shall we say ‘the police’s special room’. The Royal Gwent is a good hospital and I’ve had top notch treatment there over the years. All the time. Except on this occasion. In ‘police corner’ you get junior nurses who do not understand how to use expensive heart monitoring equipment. You get crazed coppers running the whole show. I do not believe that I met a trained doctor throughout the whole incident. It was like some sort of twisted perverted medical saga. They seemed to be getting some sort of thrill by pretending that they were actual nurses. There were two male police officers, quite young, probably the same age as myself, maybe a little younger. One of them was quiet and didn’t speak. the other just kept repeatedly, in a sort of spaced out drone-like mantra, saying. ‘Hi Wesley, I’m your friend!’ He repeated it about 300 times that night. I might have possibly seen the guy once before on a police mental hospital kidnap operation, But i have never spoken to him at all in my life. Never once met him. I don’t know who the hell he is. He’s not my friend. Talk about stalkers! I’m repeatedly asking him to un-cuff me so that I can get medical attention and at the very least tend to myself. I just thought this guys is just so unbelievably sick that I don’t know how I am going to every have faith in the human species again. They were just sort of mincing around, waiting for me to die, in some way of ‘natural causes’. I was detained at this hospital for seemingly forever. then i got bundled back in the van. no medical care at all. Nor medical staff to explain anything and i was just being rotated around by two clueless policemen in full uniform with handcuffs on and some gaping wounds which by now and ceased oozing of their own accord.

It was the short journey to their gaff now. At this stage I was just hoping they’d take me to St. Cadocs’. Whereas, at St. Cad’s there are plenty of ex-police officers on the nursing staff, at least they don’t parade around in uniform and I actually know some of the nursing staff quite well, enough to have a sensible occasional human-to-human conversation.

Back in ‘police world’ I was escorted into Newport Central and, finally, the cuffs were removed. I just couldn’t believe I was alive. My body was numb with shock and I had shooting pains in every direction. I felt never more in need of a medic in my entire life. I was put in a cell with no camera and weirdly they left the door open. The same two police stayed outside the cell all night and I was just walking back and for, in and out of the cell, trying to speak to them, as when they are on their own turf they settle right down and are far less weird than in public. I just tried persuading them to just call it a day and take me home to my missus who used to be a nurse and we could all forget about the little incident earlier. Obviously police don’t quite grasp the reality or the impact they have on people and it was a no-go zone.

I knew I wasn’t getting medical attention and it is imperative that you somehow calm down. I eventually got an hour of snooze on the cell bench. I wasn’t keen on having an open door as I slept,. Especially with two police outside. After all that had occurred. But, survival is survival, I guess.

dr darryl watts

Next day, transfer to Beechwood secure ward, St. Cadoc’s Hospital, Caerleon. And this is the point where I object, based on what has come to light to me in the past month. I am handed over by the police to a police-employed forensic psychiatrist who will treat me for mental illness against my consent for an indeterminable period. Dr Darryl Watts (see full details here… ) sectioned me under the mental health act immediately. I had zero physical medical attention for my injuries., this man is a convicted felon. Now it’s all very well me banging on about his child sex convictions. I am not a child and we live in a world where there are paedophiles. Deal with it. What alarms me is, that, when you read the articles about his sick habits in the papers, it isn’t just child porn he fetishes about. He is into extreme violence and some weird conspiracy sort of nonsense. He is a dangerous man, who is unreformed as he has never served any time and been punished for his convictions. He does not understand remorse and is a danger to society.. A long time after this whole escapade, I was told off the record by an off-duty policeman, in the knowing loop, that Dr Darryl Watts had ordered the whole taser operation on me.

To see these police charge into my home, rip my life apart another time, attempt to murder me and realise they are all doing it on the orders and advice of a 30 hour a week child porn addict….. Where indeed does this place the British legal system? Yes, Watts won several hearings again this time in Mental Health Review Tribunal Courts. What sort of world is it that I can be judged ill in the head when these people are just not natural at all, nor human?

 

A long time has passed since then and I’m recovering from the scars. I still wonder the trajectory of the weapon. I’d love to come face to face with whoever pulled the trigger. See what sort of person that they actually are. Not that I’ll ever know.

native pigeon, New Zealand

On a quiet note, just to bring some rationale back, to myself as much as anything…. I can remember when I was taught how to use firearms. On a farm in New Zealand, my mother’s family farm, out in the country, outside Wanganui: My Uncle Johnny took me out hunting. He taught me how to use a shotgun and I took a rabbit – they are pests on the farmland in NZ. It’s a dark feeling post-trigger, and seeing an animal die in front of your eyes is a sight to behold. Shortly after taking kill I was back, aiming. I had a lovely pretty bird, way up in the tops of the trees in the telescopic sight. My Uncle just checked to see what I was aiming at. He asked me softly and i described the bird – its bright plumage, green and beautiful;. He said, ‘Stop Wez’ – ‘don’t fire!’. I had half slipped the trigger and it was on the point of a shot. i relaxed my finger and asked him “why?”‘ “oh, that’s a native pigeon and they are protected birds under Maori law and it is illegal to kill them. You’ll get into trouble if you shoot that one.” I learnt the difference between a fluffy rabbit and a native pigeon and it was a wonderful day. The farm cats feasted on the rabbit and i got to keep its tail.

Guns are dangerous, people, and the police should not be carrying them, certainly not for medical purposes.

Police Brutality and Mental Health – PART 2

nazi jackboot

In this second post about my experiences of police brutality and mental health, I wish to discuss the nature of problems affecting diagnosed mental health victims when it comes to attempting to conventionally use police services.

If you’ve ever been a mental inpatient you are probably aware that the police’s jurisdiction does not extend to mental hospitals. There is no protection for incarcerated patients no matter how many times you contact police. Therefore you are forced to deal with crime inside a hospital environment on your own. This in itself is dangerous, especially when often it is the polices themselves who have removed you to the locked environment. I suppose, it could be argued that it makes sense not to want to seek help from an organisation that works on behalf of the secret prison system that is mental health lockup.

The problem I have found, is that once back in the community, attempting to build up your life, should you ever require the assistance of the police in a conventional way. To report a crime or anything else, you do not get standard service that a public user of their service might expect.

This dilemma is created by, despite diagnosed mental illness not (yet) being a criminal offence, it is recorded by the police and you do show on their system as being diagnosed mentally ill. When you call 999 or 101, caller display and police monitoring systems indicate immediately and you are flagged as a ‘mentally ill’ customer.

I first encountered the reality of this situation over a decade ago when, during a business dispute whereby some of my business’ equipment was illegally seized and I was attempting to recover it I was held hostage on someone else’s business premises with active threats of violence which I feared could result in murder. I felt I had no real alternative but to report the matter to the police, from a question of personal safety as much as anything else. Luckily, I had a mobile phone so I dialled 999 and reported the matter from within my locked environment.

After about 15 minutes the police turned up at the location. they entered the premises where the owner was actually in the room with me. The police entered, and despite me having given a lucid sane account of the crime I alleged, the police did nothing to the person I was reporting, but on entering the building put me up against the wall, inside the place where I’d been captive for about 90 minutes and started conducting a body search. I asked them exactly what they were doing as it was I who had contacted them and was the victim of a crime. The Asian officer, who I knew from the local Caldicot police (part of Gwent police), informed me that because I was mentally ill, this was standard procedure and he had to check me for concealed weapons which I obviously did not have. After conducting a thorough body search I asked him if he would now attend to the criminal matter at hand and that a) I wanted out of my hostage situation and if possible I wanted the recovery of my stolen computers and other business equipment that were being locked in a different part of the building. The police officer told me that I was trespassing and had to leave the premises without my equipment. I was quite shocked, but equally quite glad to be alive and no longer being held in a hostage situation. The police never followed up the matter at all, but I was very ill at ease and realised that I wouldn’t get conventional treatment from the police due to my mental health status. As a business you have to right off the occasional asset and possessions aren’t everything in this world. Health is a priority and preserving life is a necessary factor in living.

I tried my best not to ever contact them again but unfortunately many years later I had the misfortune of having to report a crime and felt that to make a 999 call was the only viable option.

My fiancée, Nicola, had a friend around our house for the evening. They had been enjoying themselves and having a few drinks whilst I was just minding my own business, ploughing away with my computer work…. running so many internet sites and social media takes a lot of dedicated effort! lol…

It came time for Nicola’s friend to go home. It was about midnight and she had booked a taxi. Nicola told me her friend was leaving and asked if I’d do the gentlemanly thing and escort her friend outside and to see her safely into the taxi. Of course, as chivalry demands I obliged and walked the lady outside. As she got into the taxi, a little drunk as she was, I Couldn’t believe my eyes when the taxi driver leant over her, strapped her seatbelt in and not realising that I was present, openly groped the passenger’s breast. I immediately protested and demanded to see the driver’s identity card. He showed me a ‘hackney carriage id’ with his photo on. I felt it strange that a local taxi in South Wales should have a London cabbie’s ID. The taxi sped off down the road before I could discuss matters further and sort the situation myself.

I rushed back inside and quickly explained to the missus what had happened. She was shocked and we both realised that the only people we could realistically call in this potential kidnap situation was the police on 999.

I reluctantly dialled ‘999’ and the operator speedily put me through to the police. As I was reporting the incident, I realised that I was speaking to a local police operator from her accent. the questioning seemed to be directed away from the incident and she seemed to be just gathering information on me. there was an obsession to get my details and not the details of the crime. It was like going through a standard call centre security check, like when you ring the bank. I suddenly realised that I had obviously flagged on their system as mentally ill and they were messing around. This, when Nicola’s friend’s life was in potential danger, made me angry. I hung up on the 999 call and immediately rang 999 again to try and get a better response from a different operator. I got put through to a police operator somewhere in the East Midlands if I remember correctly. I rushed through my incident report which was accepted well and she informed me that the matter was being dealt with and that the incident could expect a response.

After this 999 call ended, I quickly rang Nicola’s friends partner, who was waiting for her at home. I explained to him the situation and he was very worried, but luckily as we were talking, his drunken partner stumbled through the house door. Nicola and I breathed a sigh of relief and were just glad that the worst had not transpired in the incident. As we experienced relief we could hear a massive noise outside as vehicles started storming the neighbourhood. I realise it was the police arriving. Nicola went running outside to explain what had happened and that her friend was home safe.

I had my dressing gown on and was pondering about getting changed before I saw the police but I thought I’d better get outside and check that Nicola was OK.

This is where matters broke down and still to this day I cannot get my head around the actual lunacy that resulted. I have put in IPCC complaints etc about this and tried to pursue the matter but obviously it’s a waste of time dealing with that particular organisation.

I went through the front door and Nicola was about 25 metres away, surrounded by a group of yellow-vested police. She looked frightened and I was worried about what was happening. Stood on my front lawn I politely inquired of Nicola if she was Ok and all was OK. On hearing my voice, a second group of approximately 10-12 officers, saw me and in a military formation started rushing at me, as a group…. I raised my hands just to try and settle them. Perhaps they thought I was the reported criminal, and Nicola was the victim? This was not actually the case as the IPCC would have reported this to me when I entered my official complaint.

The police grabbed me. I offered no resistance at all, as obviously I had just dialled 999. I was thrown face down on the floor and handcuffed. The young PC, about 20 years old, who led the charge and had handcuffed me then proceeded to boot me in the back of the head and left his foot embedded in my neck, applying pressure. I couldn’t breathe at all and felt close to death. I was suffocating as I was face down in the mud with a boot in the back of my head / neck, obstructing my airways. I was in a stress position with my hands secured behind my back in cuffs. I started having an asthma attack after several minutes and somehow the officer’s heavy jackboot was removed from my neck. I was hyperventilating and just pleaded to see a doctor. He shouted at me that he was a doctor. As i re-caught my breath I was removed from the ground and escorted towards one of the waiting police vans. I asked them politely if they could get my inhaler from inside my home as I was having an asthma attack and needed it, especially anticipating I would be locked in the airtight, sealed back of a police van for a journey to wherever.

They refused to get an inhaler and were still surrounding Nicola in a military-style ring formation. I was concerned for my partner’s safety as I didn’t really want to leave her in the company of this particular section of police officers. You have no choice, however, and there was nothing I could do but quietly pray as the vehicle moved off. Cuffed, back of the wagon, not for the first time, hardly able to breathe. It is disturbing travelling in the back of a ‘meat wagon’ yet when you’ve been cuffed in the back of an ambulance the first time they introduced handcuffs to your life, travelling police-style isn’t as scary as people might imagine.

heddlu newport

The van stopped and the doors were opened and I was grabbed out, yet the cuffs were not removed. I was at the back of Newport Central police station. I was escorted into the processing area. I thought I’d go straight to the custody desk and be able to get some sense out of the custody sergeant and at least be able to phone and check that Nicola was safe and well as that was my main concern. With a sexual predator being around my home, the last thing I need is to be wondering if the missus is home safe with doors securely locked. At Newport Central, however, nothing is very easy. There were two police in the van. One, the 20 year old male ‘doctor’ who had assaulted me. The other, one from Nicola’s surrounding ring, a woman officer, who I later established was the officer in charge of the whole ‘operation’ and was a beat officer from Chepstow. Never seen either before in my life. They stopped behind the closed door of the custody suite, just inside the entrance, one either side of me restraining my arms, even though I was cuffed behind my back. We stopped and I was held there for I’d estimate about 60-90 minutes. The bloke on my left was obviously bored and decided to relieve his boredom by twisting my thumbs on my left hand around, trying to dislocate them or break them, no doubt. After being the victim of his assault outside my home I was in no mood to verbalise anything with him, for obvious reasons. In a police situation the best thing to do is to remain calm. A police officer full of adrenaline is a dangerous thing. Any form of ‘dissent’ will be punished. His officer to my right was not torturing my thumbs nor was she aware of his little idea of ‘fascist police brutality’.

I got to the custody desk, asked to call my partner at home, was denied and moved straight to the holding cells. No charge, no comment, no offer of communication about what is going on, no offer of legal representation. No communication whatsoever. Luckily, another officer managed to release me from the rather restrictive cuffs at this stage and I was so glad to get into the back of the cell where I could start reworking my circulation. At the end of the day, as a professional DJ who requires his hands for work, there is nothing worse than handcuff wounds and finger / thumb injuries… My thumb has never become right since that day. It’s a real challenge, spinning vinyl, when you’ve been tortured by police officers on so many occasions, directly on the parts of the body you need most to earn a living.

Unfortunately they wouldn’t shut the cell door and give me any peace and kept it open as, after waiting so long to get into the place there was a crazy rush to get me out. I was moved on by a fresh police officer straight out of the nick and into a more comfortable cage in the back of another van. No communications again as to where we were heading, why we were heading there, what was going on, but you expect it off the police. I recognised this copper from a previous detention and he seems a little more settled than the rampaging lot who had kidnapped me earlier in the evening.

Eventually we turned up at the secure mental hospital ward, Beechwood, St. Cadoc’s Hospital. Luckily an Ok nurse, my mate Mick was the nurse in charge for the evening. He could see that the coppers had had a right go at me and luckily as they released me into his custody he let me just have a wander off in ‘freedom, around the St. Cadoc’s grounds and garden outside the ward as he knew full well I wouldn’t be seeing any outside or nature for quite some time.

I was of course to be ‘treated’ by the criminal mental patient forensic police-employed Newport Central psychiatrist Dr Darryl Watts (see – #EoT category http://endofterror.org/?cat=191 ) for the duration of my detainment. Mick gave me one last privilege before I was sectioned as he humanely allowed me to phone Nicola, who thankfully was at home, alone, with doors locked, and safe. I had a cigarette to calm and then faced a junior shrink to get sectioned. god knows what for… to this day and post court hearings (Mental Health Review Tribunal) I do not know how the hell calling 999 to report a directly witnessed sex crime can be mental illness, yet if the police psychiatrist who is treating you is a convicted sex offender then I suppose it makes some sort of sense (as twisted as mental health logic goes).

police state

I think that as much as I hate the police state that I believe one has to accept that it is a reality. With the IPCC (Independent Police Complaints Commission) being so useless, it is important for people to document crimes by the police publicly. At the end of the day, if the outright murders of Brazilian tourist, Jean Charles de Menezes, and newsagent, Ian Tomlinson, go completely unpunished then what hope is there for other police victims in the UK? History teaches us about the rise of Nazi Germany post-1933 and what resulted in that. The scariest thing for me was that one of the first groups of people Hitler exterminated as war broke out, were the mental patients. i think that they paved the way for the gypsies and jews and slavs etc that followed. Obviously modern psychiatry was born directly out of concentration camp science. We live in a repetition of history and early 21st century Britain is in danger of being remembered in the same way as 1930s Germany.

I’ve got plenty more episodes of this blog to release, equally traumatic, if not more so, and while ‘freedom’ allows I shall continue to fight for the truth and justice and the end of tyranny and evil in mental health and psychiatry.
to be continued…

 

Ps. they didn’t have an asthma pump in the police station or hospital so I had to wait for my partner to arrange visiting times and bring one in for me at which point it was confiscated as it hadn’t been prescribed by the psychiatrist in charge.

 

[This is part 2: READ PART 1 of this story thread here… http://endofterror.org/?p=512 ]