The knives are out
Crime in the worst centuries of humanity (to date)
The wife dragged us up to Beamish Museum recently.
We had to leave the mansion early.
I was hoping for a leisurely morning. The drill being as follows: 1) Sit on the sofa, look out at our car crash of a lawn (Google “leatherjackets and grass” and weep) 2) Sip an exquisite homemade americano with double cream (THAT’S RIGHT, SOY BOYS — FULL FAT). 3) All while waiting for Basil — the rogue cat, deceiver of men, bird killer, sofa scratcher, human bed seeker — to turn up for his morning treats.
Instead, I had to get ready quicker than a British snap election manifesto proofreader.
I was on high alert as I have recently managed to cut my scalp deeply in several areas while running my razor blade over my head. The wounds have left me with such a ghoulish appearance that I make Marlon Brando at the end of Apocalypse Now look like a Kindergarten teddy bear.
Thankfully, I was able to avoid inflicting any serious scars on this occasion and therefore did not have to frantically blink blood out of my eyes as I tore the boys away from their video games.
Despite the concentration needed to shave my cranium leaving me exhausted, I was still able to pack the car with enough food and drink to feed the 900-strong Luxembourg army (don’t look at me, ask the wife). After stretching my gippy shoulder we set off, with about as much enthusiasm as a judge at a non-alcoholic beer contest.
Two hours later, the electric car charge point at the Beamish museum car park was the last piece of the 21st century we would see for the next 8 hours. (Is that accurate? — Ed) Not quite (why’s that? — Ed). We saw some card readers. (I see — Ed). And smartphones (right — Ed). And all the horrendous things that today’s fashion victims wear (OK — Ed).
At the counter the wife flashed her phone at one of the staff to prove that she had purchased tickets with legal tender. A huge map of the museum on the wall had a sign in the top right-hand corner that said “Take a picture of me to save the planet”. Or something along those lines. I dutifully did so.
Then someone handed me two paper maps. I folded them up and put them in my back trouser pocket.
We walked out into the open-air museum and boarded an early-20th century bus that was emitting more carbon dioxide than a Chinese solar panel production plant. We climbed to the top and the wife and I reminisced about getting onto old-school double decker buses and paying the conductor for a paper ticket that he wound out of a huge machine that hung off his neck. The children looked at us with an expression of pity and bewilderment.
We disembarked at a small village that transported us back to the 1900s. Inside the school, the headmaster asked the children how old they were. “12,” said the eldest.
“Well then, your father would be pulling you out of school right about now and sending you down the coal mine.”
The eldest looked at me in sheer awe, delight and horror. I gave him what I judged to be a reassuring look. He ran out of the building.
The wife marched us to a fish and chip shop around the corner as it was 11:30 in the morning. Despite having eaten two breakfasts and several snacks in the car, it was time for lunch. “We have to get there early and queue up otherwise it’s a long wait,” she said.
I stood in the queue while she went off to look at some 1900s-style houses with the children.
When they returned half an hour later I was still waiting for the fish and chips. They joined me in the queue. We watched the kitchen staff shovel coal into the black cast iron ovens, carefully lay batter-covered fish into bubbling beef dripping and transfer thick-cut chips from the fryer into a shelf above it to keep warm.
‘Do you have any tomato ketchup?’
‘No,’ said one of the staff.
‘Tartare sauce?’
‘No.’
‘Sicilian lemon mayonnaise?”
‘No. Only salt and vinegar.’
I bit my tongue, tempted as I was to call the man a communist.
They wrapped the food in faux newspaper. We went outside and ate it while freezing our proverbials off (it was unseasonably cold in May, although we’ve been told the UK had the warmest May since 2034 B.C. Or something. Go figure.).
We climbed some stairs up into an old building and looked at a mine shaft briefly. The eldest glanced at me. I gave him what I judged, once again, to be a reassuring look. He ran out of the building.
Our exploration through late nineteenth-century to mid-twentieth century Britain continued apace.
We travelled on a tram. We saw several museum staff dressed head-to-toe in elegant attire. Three piece suits. Hats. Long dresses. Gloves. They looked… sophisticated. Stylish. Understated. Civilised.
We walked into a pharmacy and the lady behind the counter eyed up my bald head while subtly pointing to some hair restoration lotion from the 1920s. I ignored her. We bought sweets from a confectioner who weighed out the sweets after tipping them out of large tubs. The children looked at him as if he was an alien. They then played football with a proper leather ball from the 1940s that would give you concussion and permanent brain damage if you headed it more than once in the space of an hour.
We explored people’s homes. A fairground. A cafe/diner, complete with old-fashioned dining booths, one flavour ice cream options (vanilla of course), glass tea mugs and displays of fat slices of Victoria sponge cake.
It was all very pleasant. And strangely reassuring. It was as if experiencing a bit of the late nineteenth and early to mid-twentieth century (the vestiges of which the wife and I experienced in our childhoods), even in a fake, synthetic manner, was a way to wrap oneself in a safety blanket.
Rose-tinted? Perhaps. The horrors and far-reaching consequences of two world wars, the hardship of poverty, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera, made life extremely difficult for some. But when it came to ordinary everyday life, despite daily chores being tougher and far less convenient than today, things seemed just… better.
There was a stronger sense of community, people had better manners, there was an understanding of civic duty… and perhaps most importantly, there was far less crime.
When we got home I used the interweb to look up some figures on crime.
According to the UK government, during the first two decades of the 20th century the police in England and Wales recorded an average of 90,000 criminal offences each year.
This figure increased to over 500,000 during the 1950s.
Then things went a little crazy.
There was an amazingly sharp rise in offences recorded by the police from the late 1950s. During the 1960s, crime rates doubled. Crime continued to rise after that. With an average of over one million crimes recorded each year in the 1960s, this increased to two million during the 1970s, and to 3.5 million in the 1980s!!!!!
In 2003, 6 million crimes were recorded. After that, there was mostly a bit of a decline. This could be put down to things such as better house security, more criminals being in prison, and of course, that old beauty — police authorities and governments fiddling the books and definitions of criminal offences.
But despite this, in September 2022 recorded crimes for the previous 12 months hit 6.6 million. And in September 2023 they hit 6. 7 million.
Another stat that caught my eye was this one: knife crime increased by 7 percent in the UK from the year ending December 2022 to December 2023 — and has increased by 81 percent in the past decade!!!!!!
***RANT INTERLUDE*** (RECOMMENDED BACKGROUND MUSIC — Sergei Prokofiev’s Romeo and Juliet, No 13 Dance of the Knights)
WHY THE HECK ARE ALL THESE YOUNG PEOPLE STABBING EACH OTHER?!?!?! WHY HAVE WE LOST THE “WAR” ON DRUGS?!?!?! WHY THE HECK DO WE HAVE SO MANY GANGS MADE UP OF FERAL YOUTHS IN OUR INNER CITIES?!?!?!? WHY THE HECK ARE WE NOT SHOCKED BY RISING KNIFE CRIME?!?!?!!? WHY THE HECK ARE MURDERERS NOT LOCKED UP FOR LIFE?!?!??!?
***RANT INTERLUDE ENDS***
(Are you… er… OK? — Ed)
And don’t even get me started on all the “anti-social” behaviour that goes on these days.
Why has this all happened?
Well, to paraphrase “Sir” Anthony “Saddam can bomb us in 45 minutes with his WMD” Blair, we have been pathetically limp-wristed on crime — and even weaker on the real cause of crime for over 60 years now.
It’s no wonder, then, that I enjoyed writing about vigilantes in my novels The Dojang and Redemptio. And why characters such as Judge Dredd, created for the 2000 A.D. comic by writer John Wagner and artist Carlos Ezquerra and Jack Reacher, created by Lee Child, are so popular.
And Batman.
And Spiderman.
And Danger Mouse.
And Bananaman.
Progress report:
The Anchorite, my latest novella, has had its first edits. I am proofreading and editing it again.
I have still not started writing my next novel as I don’t know which idea to go with. I may start it before WW3 erupts… who knows…