MCM, Henry Hicks, trains and foundations.

Well, my birthday was mostly a bust. A big, fat, dragging, painful failure. But there was MCM, so that was cool. But I met a girl on the train, with an interesting tale.

I and a load of friends were on the train home from the Comicon, sore of foot and slightly short of temper, due to the annoyance caused by large amounts of morons in small spaces. But otherwise, Comicon was pretty cool. But I digress from the girl.

This wasn’t a whole James Blunt thing, she wandered up and down the train putting flyers on each table and the end chairs of every set of seats, once she reached the end of the train, she turned around and came back, doing the other side. We had examined the flyer, and couldn’t understand it, but, as you can see from the photo, it was obvious it was a memorial of some kind, so I called her back, and it went a little thus:

Me: Uh, Miss, excuse me, sorry, who is, or, rather, was Henry Hicks?
Girl: He was my friend.
(This changed everything, as she managed to explain, with minimal choking on words) He was killed in a police chase by unmarked police cars. They chased him down, for no reason, and with no cause, and he was killed. This was just before Christmas, and they’ve faced minimal punishment, at worst, they’ve had a gross misconduct slap on the wrist. (I’m paraphrasing, as I can’t remember her exact words, but you get the gist!)

Now, because I wasn’t there, and I didn’t know anything about it until Saturday, I don’t want to point fingers or try to claim details I don’t know. The problem is, history is written by the winners, and the dead don’t tend to be winners. But the internet is there, please feel free to find the various reports and webpages and make up your own minds.

But the point of this post isn’t to point fingers, or pass bucks or flail wildly into berzerker status, it’s to educate. There is a foundation. A foundation set up in Henrys name, for the families of other people killed or seriously injured by the police.

I must make the point at this moment, that I like the police. They have always helped me, apart from one, but I think she was a useless, selfish, stupid, spiteful bitch who could only be called the rape specialist if she was being raped by wild horses. Which is kind of what I wish on her. Sort of. When I’m in a bad mood. Rarely. Anyway, in their main bulk, the British police have mainly been good to me, possibly because I’m far too boring to be of interest to them.

But there are exceptions, and sadly, a lot of good police are tarred with the same brush as the few bad. As are young men.

I don’t know enough about the situation, and the most I could find with tired post-con brain, cats in my face, potentially broken fingers and a cold were half hearted reports that sat on one side of the fence or the other. There were no major reports that just gave facts, but of course, that’s the problem: You can hear all the sides of the story, and you’ll still only hear half the truth.

In fairness to my crap birthday, my mum, my sister, brother-in-law and nephew kept me entertained and fed! Complete with cake!

Thank you for reading guys, you make this what it is, without you, there’d be no point in me doing this! So, to thank you, I ask you a favour, ask me. What do you want to know? What do you want to hear? Would you like something special? Tell me, I can’t help you, if you don’t help me!

Oh, and to the girl on the train, your hair was fine 🙂 and hopefully you’ll raise more awareness for your foundation.


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