Doing Brazilians for free

IT APPEARS that I have been living under a misapprehension all these years.

I did not fail my knots badge in the Cubs. Neither did I fail my Chemistry O-level (despite getting only two per cent). And I certainly didn’t fail my driving test the first time around. I was merely a victim of “deferred success”.

At least that is the theory of retired teacher Liz Beattie, who has tabled a motion for the annual conference of the Professional Association of Teachers arguing that the concept of "failure" should be removed from the British education system and be replaced with "deferred success".

It really does beggar belief. They’ve made exams so easy that you can pass despite getting four out of five questions wrong, even thickies get a guaranteed place at one of Mr Blah’s new “universities”, they’ve banned school sports because of “elitism” and now they’re trying to do away with the very idea that some people might be smarter than others.

You can’t fool kids like this. They learn from the very first day in the playground that life is all about winners and losers. The winners, even at the age of five, are bigger and cleverer than the norm. The losers are the ginger kids who smell a bit funny and wear Woolworths plastic sandals in summer and wellies in winter. It is life as we know it.

And what purpose can possibly be served by creating an artificial society where no-one fails? All you then do is generate false expectations amongst the rabble. There will always be dole scum, just as there will always be brave and bright individuals. Taking away any sense of personal responsibility for one’s achievement (or lack of it) merely panders to the notion that nothing is ever anyone’s fault.

“I’m thick because the teachers never liked me.” “I’m pregnant because I missed the sex education lesson.” “I can’t get a job because I’d have to get a bus to work.” The mind boggles.

THE CAPITAL comes to a standstill as sirens blare and cars speed through the streets. It’s a fleet of ambulance-chasing human rights lawyers heading for Stockwell tube station.

“It’s a shoot-to-kill policy”, the lentil-eating, leather-elbowed Guardianistas cry, evoking memories of Gibraltar and Belfast. Well I sincerely hope it is. What do they want? A shoot-to-sting-a-bit policy?

I am thoroughly sick of the liberal furore surrounding the unfortunate death of Jean Charles de Menezes. It is said that he was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Correct. He shouldn’t have even been in the country in the first place, and wouldn’t have been if Mr Blah hadn’t surrendered control of our borders to the point where over half a million illegal immigrants have flooded into the country.

(And isn’t it odd that during the general election campaign, Mr Blah claimed to have no idea how many illegal immigrants were here. Three months later and the Home Office appears to have known all along.)

We are told that Jean Charles de Menezes was working as an electrician and sending money back to his family in Brazil. We are not told whether or not he was paying tax and National Insurance contributions, nor if he was qualified in any way. At a time when Mr Prescott will have you arrested for changing a light bulb without a Man from the Council standing over you, this seems a little unfair.

Let’s just look at the simple facts. Mr de Menezes who, it has to be conceded was of “foreign” appearance, walked out of a block of flats that was under surveillance by security forces after being linked directly to the attempted bombings of last Thursday. Despite the tropical temperatures, he was wearing a large padded jacket.

He was then followed via a bus journey to Stockwell tube station where he was challenged by armed plainclothes police. At which point he vaulted the barriers and ran off. Why he did this, we don’t know. He is said to have spoken good English and can hardly have been unaware of the current state of tension in London. It wasn’t the best of decisions.

Now put yourself in the place of the armed police tracking him. The suspected suicide bomber you are following (for that’s what he was at that stage) runs off and dives onto a tube train. What do you do? You shoot him, of course. Lots of times. Sufficient to ensure that he can’t detonate any explosives he may be carrying.

What was the alternative? Allow him time to obliterate himself, the police and any nearby passengers? Send for Dixon of Dock Green and give him a bit of a talking to? There was no choice and the poor bloke who pulled the trigger (and will now, no doubt, be crucified for this public service) did exactly the right thing.

Incidentally, is it only me who feels queasy when Mr de Menezes’ family fly in and start complaining about the standards of British police and demanding a few million quid in compensation? Stockwell isn’t San Paulo, and as far as I know, the Met have yet to start shooting homeless children dead just to keep the streets tidy.

A bit of bible for you: "Judge not, that ye be not judged … and why beholdest thou the mote that is in thy brother's eye, but considerest not the beam that is in thine own?”

SPEAKING OF deferred success, and with the B Team of bombers in mind, what happens to a warrior of Islam whose bomb fails to go off and has to run away? Does he still get his full quota of 72 virgins? Or does he just get the one: a whiny, needy self-obsessed teenager who keeps saying that she’ll only do it if he promises to respect her in the morning?

And what about the would-be martyrs who cocked it up on Thursday? Do they have to slink back to the Mosque, red-faced and sheepish, facing a stint of Bingo-calling at the Friday night social as punishment? (We won’t even mention the meat raffle.)

I have a solution to this outbreak of commuter fear. Why not just make all swarthy-looking people travel in their own carriage? A reinforced metal one. I know it sounds harsh, but at least it would set a lot of minds at rest.

IT WILL not surprise you to learn that Mrs Beelzebub, an unreconstructed Leftie, is somewhat at odds with my opinion of the terrorist threat and the police reaction to it. In fact, she’s spent so long ranting at the telly – and me - this week that she eventually stormed off to the attic with the new Harry Potter and a tin of chocolate digestives.

(I think it might have been the comment that she could save money on her beauty treatments by popping down to the local police station where they’re doing Brazilians for free that pushed her over the edge.)

I knew I’d upset her, but I didn’t realize quite how much. This morning I wandered downstairs to find chalked on the kitchen noticeboard the chilling words: “Ron Weasley dies ha ha ha”. Bitch.

O The views of Mr Beelzebub are purely personal and do not necessarily reflect the opinions of the Editor or staff of this website, of anyone surprised that the fugitive bombers were all living on State benefits or of anyone surprised that the fugitive bombers had all been on a publicly-funded white water rafting jolly. We now have a public service announcement: Attention all policemen reading this. Please note, I am not wearing a suspiciously large jacket. This is all me. Thank you.