A Song For The Rhys.

In the four days since I first arrived at blogspot, I have not touched upon a subject which constantly irks me, each afternoon when I read the news on bbc.com, and that is the ongoing trial of Rhys Jones.


To clarify a matter, as previously stated, I am not living in Liverpool at this moment, but I do own property there, in Norris Green, where most of these skells come from. My parents live in Norris Green, with my younger brother. My sister also lives in Norris green with my nephew and the area where she lives is in the thick of it.

My sister has told me many stories of people with guns outside the house. Not normal hand-guns, she tells me, but huge, shit-your-pants-scary shotguns. One Christmas past, a woman two doors away had her front door shot at.

When my sister informed me where she was moving some years ago, I begged her not to go there (Always I loathed that part of Norris Green after suffering a violent attack there some years ago), but to no avail, now she can't get out. Cobalt, who owns the houses, has more empty houses than residents.

But the Rhys Jones trial is intriguing to me in a way. Because everytime I see what they are saying in court, I think 'Knobs.'

Phrases such as 'turf-war,' are used. These people aren't the bloods and crips, fighting on South Central. They are scallies stood outside a set of god-awful shops.

'No comment,' = 'I'm fuckin' 'ard me, like.' Then sent to prison for contempt of court. Let's see how hard you are against Britain's finest on Her Majesty's Pleasure.

'I was watching a 50 Cent DVD, honest Guv'nor!'
'50 Cent? You can go to prison for crimes against culture, you priggish lad!'

But the thing which really gets my goat is the length of it all. Of course, everyone has the right to due trial and fair process, but these twats never worked in their life, and the trail is running for weeks and weeks at the cost of the tax-payer (Upon reading some of their statements, I sincerely hope that the laws of perjury are in full effect).

I hope the friggin' lot of them are taken off the streets and soon.

Roctopus.

PS: I still bear some emotional scars from the violent attack suffered some years ago, but it was with great pleasure that in January this year, whilst in Buenos Aires, I read that the scrote had been nicked for dealing cocaine/heroine - with his father no less. Classy.