An afternoon with Mister English

A story of policemen, mental health and fire extinguishers

‘English by name, English by nature.’

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This story is grim. Two Sussex police officers are on trial for assault after using CS spray, a baton and Taser on a 92-year old man. Who was in a wheelchair. In a care home. And he only had one leg. Yes, he was being aggressive, as people with dementia sometimes are. He had a small knife. The manager of the care home told Southwark Crown Court Donald Burgess ‘looked like he was possessed.’ Mr. Burgess died three weeks later, having contracted covid.

Still. It’s ugly.

As I write, the trial’s ongoing, so I shan’t comment further. I do, however, note the dry language used in court about the tactical options open to officers;

Ian Mills, a use of force expert said using the Taser after other options had failed was a "viable action" and not something he would criticise.

Mr Mills told jurors the situation had reached the point where "all the other options have failed" and using a Taser provided a rapid resolution.

This is where we are. Protocols and process-mapped decision-making models. ‘Accredited professional practice’ in action I suppose. The slow, strangulated death of commonsense. Hey, maybe Donald Burgess was a clear and present danger. Maybe he wasn’t. A jury will decide, which is as it should be.

Although I suspect 99.9% of the general public have already made their minds up.

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The story reminded me of an incident I always planned to write about. By the way, this genuinely isn’t a case of ‘look at how better we dealt with things back in the day’. Trust me, we did lots of stuff badly back in the day. We were poorly-equipped, occasionally cavalier and, when it came to dealing mental health, virtually untrained. I remember a lecture on the subject at Hendon, where we were told we’d occasionally encounter people suffering from ‘harmless delusions’ (I did - they were usually in the chief inspector’s office).

We had no tasers or incapacitant sprays. This lack of ‘tactical options’ made you think, primarily because you had to. Again, this isn’t a screed against tooled-up coppers. If you read my stuff, you’ll know I’m robust when it comes to equipping officers with the tools necessary for the job. I’m just old-fashioned, inasmuch I genuinely believe there’s room for both carrot and stick. Besides, I’m a lover, not a fighter.

Anyhow, back to my story. To set the mood, here’s a picture of funky, swinging Portobello Road. Where, circa 1996, I was patrolling in a northerly direction:

Portobello market in the 1990s; still rough around the edges, but gentrifying at the speed of sound.

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The call was to a disturbance to the mental hospital on St. Charles Square. A panda car picked me up, the Pc driving a lugubrious former trainee detective. He’d been tossed back into uniform when the then-Commissioner closed the CID school at Hendon. Disgusted, he was moving to a northern force. ‘Would you mind dealing with this?’ he said. ‘The last thing I need’s a complaint. It’ll fuck up my transfer.’ He was a nice enough bloke, so I agreed.

Inside the hospital I was met by a nurse. Back then, mental health nurses came in two flavours: (1) normal-looking women in scrubs and (2) fucking enormous blokes in scrubs. I did wonder, given the male nurses looked like rugby prop forwards, why they needed little old me. I mentioned this to the nurse. ‘Because Mister English is clever,’ she said. ‘He’s more likely to do what a policeman says.’

‘Why?’ I asked, taking off my silly police helmet.

‘Because he knows it pisses us off,’ the nurse sighed. Then she led me into the TV room. The furniture was smashed to bits, the windows broken. The TV was working, though, showing the snooker. ‘There you go,’ said the nurse. ‘Please get Mary out of there, would you?’

Which was when I met Mister English, who was armed with a big red fire extinguisher. I’m using his real name because it’s relevant to the story, but also because I liked him. I also strongly suspect he’s no longer with us. Anyhow, Mister English certainly isn’t the villain of this story, because this is a story without villains. I hope, if anyone remembers him, they’ll understand I’m writing this story from a place of kindness.

I recall Mister English was in his sixties, perhaps. A wiry man, grey-haired and unshaven, dressed in his pyjamas. His face was gnarly, as if he’d worked outdoors for much of his life. Like a few people I’ve met suffering from acute mental health problems, Mister English looked completely sane. Looking at the heavy steel fire extinguisher, I slid the long acrylic baton from the loop on my belt. The situation, I realised, could go sideways. I was also wary of using my radio; one piece of advice I’d been given was to switch radios off around people suffering from schizophrenia (they hear enough voices as it is).

Remember Mary? She was a little old lady in a dressing gown, sitting on a chair in the middle of the room. Surrounded by debris, she was happily watching men in bow ties and waistcoats potting balls on green baize. I looked at her. She looked at the telly. I looked at Mister English. Mister English looked at Mary, then at the baton in my hand. It was an unlikely Mexican standoff. ‘Hello Mister English,’ I said. ‘My name’s Dom. Would you put the fire extinguisher down please?’

‘No.’

‘Okay, can we get Mary out of the room?’

‘Why?’ said Mister English. ‘She’s fine.’

‘You’ve smashed up the room. You’re carrying a fire extinguisher like you might hit someone with it.’

Mister English screwed up his face in concentration. I shook my head; this was nothing like the hostage negotiations you saw on the telly. No, Mister English wasn’t going to ask for pizza, a million dollars and a plane to Brazil. ‘What’s gonna happen if I don’t?’ he said. He was half-wary and half-cocky. Unpredictable. I’ll admit, I tightened my grip on my baton.

I decided honesty was the best policy. Mister English struck me as a pragmatist. ‘Well, given you’ve smashed the room up and I’m worried about Mary’s safety, if you don’t put the extinguisher down I’ll probably have to hit you with this stick until you do. Sorry.’ Yes, I apologised in advance, which is possibly why British police officers used to be the envy of the world.

‘Okay, Mary can go,’ Mister English replied. ‘I don’t mind.’

I nodded at the nurses waiting by the door. They didn’t seem as nervous as I was for some reason. I suppose my brain was flooded with fight or flight chemicals. Gripping Mary’s arm, I led her away, keeping an eye on Mister English. ‘You okay?’ asked the nurse.

‘Yeah, I’m fine,’ I said. Which was a big fat lie, as I had no idea what might happen next.

‘Look, he needs medicating. Persuade him to see the doctor,’ the nurse explained. ‘He’s quite deferential to doctors.’

I raised an eyebrow. ‘Does he usually do this?’

‘Not with a fire extinguisher.’

That left the two of us in the TV room. ‘Thanks for that,’ I said to Mister English. ‘Now, why don’t you put the fire extinguisher down?’

‘I’m not sure I want to,’ he said, smiling.

I nodded at the smashed up furniture. ‘Why did you do this, mate?’ I wanted to fill the silence with words, in case I needed to close the distance between us and begin sticking him.

At this point, Mister English cackled. I didn’t mention it before, but Mister English had a strong Irish accent. He looked at his handiwork and smiled. ‘What can I say?’ he chuckled, nodding at the devastation he’d wrought. ‘English by name, English by nature.’

Then he put the fire extinguisher down.

The acrylic ‘Arnold Baton’. In 1996, this was the acme of Met police weaponry.

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‘Thanks,’ I said, stepping forward and grabbing the extinguisher. I rolled it away and took a step back. Mister English didn’t seem threatening. On the other hand, he didn’t look relaxed, either. ‘I think you should see a doctor. The nurse says they want to see you.’

‘They’ll want to stick needles in me.’

‘I reckon they probably do. It’s probably a good idea, though. You can’t be smashing the place up like this.’ I know, my words were hardly original. They were trite. Obvious. But policing teaches you there’s a time for oratory and a time for commonsense. This was the latter.

Mister English suddenly looked deflated. ‘I dunno,’ he said. ‘Will you come with me?’

‘If you like,’ I said. To be honest, Mister English could have asked me to perform a haka or sing the Congolese national anthem and I’d have done it. I just wanted to end the incident peacefully.

We all ended up in a booth, Mister English lying on a gurney. Me, a doctor, and the nurse I met earlier. Mister English held my hand tightly as the doctor slid an alarmingly large needle into his arm. ‘You’ll feel better very soon, Mister English,’ he said, in an authoritative, doctor-ish voice.

‘Thank you, Doctor,’ said Mister English, looking over my shoulder at the nurse. He smiled a snarky smile, then closed his eyes. Then, he was away with the fairies.

Even now, I don’t know if Mister English was playing mind games with the nurses. An act of rebellion perhaps. Like Jack Nicholson in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest? I don’t know. The staff seemed kind. There were no Nurse Ratcheds I could see at St. Charles.

Here’s what I do know; hitting people is a last resort. Especially vulnerable people. That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be prepared to do it. To be honest? I’d have set about Mister English if I there were no other choice. Maybe, in another timeline, in a parallel universe, I did. Maybe I’d have ended up in court too?

Who knows?

Nonetheless, I’ll always remember the troubled Irishman called Mister English, who was baffled and angry and snarky. He was funny too. Perhaps manipulative. But as he held my hand, wincing as the needle bit, I couldn’t help but feel for him. I was still at the point where my empathy circuits were only partially corroded.

So, farewell Mister English. I hope things worked out in the end, whatever that might have looked like for you.

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I thought a story like this would make a change from analysis and opinion. Let me know what you think. Elsewhere, I’ve been writing in UnHerd on Scottish organised crime and Labour’s really bloody stupid sentencing review.

Until next time, take care.

Dom.