PAGE Seven of last Friday’s Times was dominated by a story headed: ‘Human remains left in suitcases’. What followed horrified me – for journalistic reasons.
It began: ‘Police have launched a manhunt after two suitcases containing human remains were found on the Clifton Suspension Bridge in Bristol.
‘Officers were called to reports of a man acting suspiciously on the bridge at 11.57pm on Wednesday but he vanished before they arrived, leaving a suitcase. A second suitcase was found nearby a short time later. Both contained what are believed to be human remains.
‘An investigation is under way to find the man and identify the deceased.
‘The man, described as black with a light beard, was dressed all in black, with an Adidas baseball cap, jeans, jacket and trainers with thick white soles. He was carrying a black backpack.
‘He was taken to the bridge in a taxi, which has been seized by police. The driver is helping officers with inquiries.
‘The suspect then left the bridge in a westerly direction towards Leigh Woods before fleeing down a side road, where residents were told about traces of “fresh blood”.
‘Police have urged people not to approach the man if they see him but to call 999 and quote the reference number 5224180010. Chief Inspector Vicks HaywardMelen, the acting Bristol police commander, said the case was “very disturbing”. She added: “Our immediate priority is to locate the man who took the suitcases to the bridge, identify the deceased and inform the next of kin”.’
You don’t say!
In my day this story would have been rewritten from top to bottom but today’s generation of sub-editors, mainly trainees arriving straight from university, are happy to regurgitate unquestioningly what is put before them.
The intro mentions ‘suitcases containing human remains’. The second paragraph says: ‘Both contained what are believed to be human remains.’ They’ll be telling us next that ‘human remains’ are involved, or body parts, as most humans would put it. What body parts? Male or female? If the police aren’t divulging, the story should say that.
Police jargon is reproduced without question. ‘Officers were called to reports of a man acting suspiciously on the bridge at 11.57pm . . . helping officers with inquiries . . . The suspect then left the bridge in a westerly direction . . . identify the deceased and inform the next of kin.’
And what on earth does ‘residents were told about traces of “fresh blood”’ mean when it’s at home?
The best line in the piece is buried much further down – that a passing woman helped the suspect to lug the cases and said to him: ‘Those are the heaviest suitcases I’ve ever lifted. What’s in them? Bodies?’
Journalistic atrocities aside (and in the Times they are manifold), what chiefly struck me about this story was the public being told if they see the suspect to call 999 and, incredibly, to quote a ten-figure reference number.
You can imagine the scene. ‘Emergency, which service do you require?’ ‘Police!’ ‘Putting you through now.’ ‘Police, Officer Binkie speaking, pronoun they, how can I help?’
Panicked caller gabbles: ‘I’ve just seen the bloke who had them bodies in the suitcases on the bridge! He’s gone into Morley’s fried chicken shop! Send someone quick!’
Police officer: ‘OK, sir, what is the reference number of the incident?’
‘What do you mean reference number? There’s a maniac on the loose!’
‘Sorry, sir, you should have a ten-digit reference number to enable me to identify the alleged incident. We do have to deal with a large number of cases, you know.’
‘Reference number be buggered! Are you going to send someone or not?’
‘No need for that sort of language, sir. You don’t want to be accused of a hate crime, now, do you?’
Caller hangs up in exasperation.
Reference number 5224180010 says it all about policing today in all its bureaucratic glory. Do they genuinely expect the public to make a note of all ten digits on the off chance that they might bump into the fugitive?
Still at least we have the brilliant, perspicacious Vicks Hayward-Melen (you couldn’t make it up!) on the case. Her LinkedIn profile (yes, her name takes a hyphen unlike in the Times) describes her as ‘a passionate and caring leader with a strong track record in command positions and team management’.
The criminal classes of Avon and Somerset must be quaking in their boots.
Incidentally, the same edition of the Times on Friday July 12 contained a fawning story about the widow of the arch-vax pusher Michael Mosley. ‘Her comments come before the BBC’s planned day of coverage commemorating Mosley on July 12.’ Or, as I would say, ‘today’. Gawd ’elp us.
During my thankless years as Revise Editor of the Daily Mail, seeing such shoddy work would have led me to give the culprit a severe rollicking. If that happened nowadays the poor lamb would take his or her hurt feelings off to HR and I would no doubt be sacked.
We’ll always have Café de Paris
Those of you who appreciated my columns singing the praises of anchovies and Marmite may be interested in a recent discovery of mine, Café de Paris butter.
This wonderful delicacy was invented in 1930 by a chap named Boubier, whose son-in-law ran the Café de Paris in Geneva. He had the idea to serve only one savoury dish – steak and chips with a side salad. The steak was garnished with butter mixed with herbs, spices and anchovies. It was a smash hit and still has pride of place on the menu.
Chefs nowadays use CDPB not just to melt on to steak but to fry pork, chicken, sweetbreads and all manner of other proteins. I have enjoyed great success with lamb or pig kidneys fried in a large dollop of it, and also wild salmon. There are many recipes out there but I recommend this simple one from the Nosey Chef.
Ingredients:
§ 250g butter, softened
§ 2 shallots
§ 1 clove of garlic, peeled
§ 2 anchovy fillets [more if you like]
§ 2 tsp Dijon mustard
§ grated zest and juice of 1 lemon
§ 1 splash Worcestershire sauce
§ 4 tbsp flat-leaf parsley, chopped
§ Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper
Method:
§ Beat the butter with a whisk (use a stand mixer if you have one) until pale and creamed.
§ Then combine everything except the herbs and seasoning in a food processor and run it until combined.
§ Finally, add the herbs, and season.
§ Form the butter into a long sausage on a piece of greaseproof paper and then roll up into a log. Wrap in clingfilm and freeze.
§ To use, carve a slice off the frozen log and allow to come up to fridge temperature.
Old jokes’ home
I went in to a pet shop. I said, ‘Can I buy a goldfish?’ The guy said, ‘Do you want an aquarium?’ I said, ‘I don’t care what star sign it is.’
A PS from PG
Budge Street, Chelsea, in the heart of London’s artistic quarter, is, like so many streets in the hearts of artistic quarters, dark, dirty, dingy and depressing. Its residents would appear to be great readers and very fond of fruit, for tattered newspapers can always be found fluttering about its sidewalks and old banana skins, cores of apples, plum stones and squashed strawberries lying in large quantities in its gutters. Its cats are stringy, hard-boiled cats who look as if they were contemplating, or had just finished perpetrating, a series of murders of the more brutal type.
PG Wodehouse: Uncle Dynamite
Thaks for featuring my recipe. I am honoured. Orignal was Nick Nairn.
I recently discovered butter coffee… a lump of butter melted into a cup of coffee and stirred in. Delicious!
P.S. I was offered a job with the council’s noise abatement department last week but I had to turn it down.