Serious business this, my mind’s totally blown away

Friday 12 November 2010, 9.29am HKT


Srsly, saving others is not a pastime. It’s got to be worth it for the savee as much as it is for you. It’s serious business when you can’t figure out if you’re in fact taking a plunge without first checking the pool has water or not.

PREVIOUSLY on The Naked Listener …

Our heroine, Q, manages to get word out via a phone text message from hospital. The parents are doing nothing other than a piss-stream of email in over-correct grammar. The knights on the ground are still invisible, and whose intentions are unknown.

Same ole’ TL;DR routine. Same ole’ reality show. Same ole’ public service. Same ole’ disclaimer that I ain’t lying. Same ole’ fudged names to protect the evil.

Whay-hey! It’s 11.58 pm — wait, it’s 12.04 am on Friday, 12th November 2010. Time flies like knives. Fruit flies like bananas.

Srsly, all I’m seeing are fragged people. Fragged in the head. It’s serious business when all you’re seeing is a faecal avalanche of FUBAR news that you’ve secretly predicted would happen, but hoped would never transpire into reality.

What’s up, doc?

Don’t “doc” me, you little twerp. I go through all this trouble to write this, blog it, and hope somebody like you would have the opportunity to actually ignore it — and I get this sarcastic behaviour in return. What’s up yours, mate?!

Sitrep recap

As of 11th November, it’s Day 8 of hospital detention by my reckoning. Q’s being held under a Section 2 Compulsory Detention and Assessment Order on s.2 Mental Health Act 1983/2007 of the UK.

Facepalm

Q’s been binned at the Somewheretown Medical Centre in the East Midlands region of the UK, a place where strange, woad-painted tribal locals actually expect to have a night out on 47p (73¢ U.S.) in their pockets.

On Tuesday (9th November), I got the first and only SMS-bounce-email from Q’s number wanting my help and using the correct parol. I also got a retarded hieroglyphic email from Q’s old man. My return email to the old man was to tell him off more responsibility needed now.

Couple of thoughts have occurred to or been running in my mind about Q’s case, and I’ll put them in a separate blogpost in due course.

Wednesday, 10th November 2010

4.08 pm (9.08 am GMT)

Q's picture

I got this cryptic SMS-bounce-email from Q’s number around 4 in the afternoon (left).

That’s it. That’s the actual image. Q’s out? Q’s in? Q’s what? It’s meaningless. It’s just a picture of some notes, a English-Chinese dictionary and a book. Hang on. Pictures looks a bit too calm. I don’t normally associate calmness or books and notes with detention privileges — but, srsly, that’s just me. How could anyone under mental-health detention (possibly under medication) be writing what seems to be calm, unhurried writing? That picture could be from anyone or anywhere.

8.30 pm (1.30 pm GMT)

Just before dinner time. Contact! Q rang and it’s through! I now have a speaking voice on the phone and I could confidently and reliably say it’s Q that I was speaking to.

How? Because it was a torrent of nasal/saliva sounds from this eccentric girl ‘over thar.’ Q speaks like this all the time. She speaks like she’s giving me a hairdryer treatment (i.e. non-stop, five-hour-napalm-airstrike bollocking).

The gist of this 22-minute mobile yakking:

  • I could barely hear or understand Q because of her high-speed speaking.
  • Q was getting increasingly agitated as the call went on.
  • I had to yell back because of the static on the line.
  • I can’t even hear myself think with the yelling.
  • Q is still in hospital.
  • Q doesn’t even know she’s under compulsory detention.
  • Q tells me all this shit about the place being a teaching hospital.
  • Can’t be sure from Q how many times this UK helper visited her.
  • This helper told Q he’s “from immigration” or “a doctor” or “something.”
  • Q isn’t even sure of this helper’s name.
  • This helper hasn’t or isn’t “repaying money” and “left only £100 cash, in cash” with Q.
  • Ever since the helper came to visit Q, she says the hospital staff have suddenly started “to treat me badly” and look at her with poe faces.
  • A boy by the name of Rick Aston-Martini either didn’t return Q’s hard drive or ran away with it, “and I’ve got all my data on it,” Q says.
  • Overheard background conversation between Q and an Englishwoman (nurse or hospital staff?) the lines “Are you going to appeal?” or “Do you think you can appeal?”
  • Bollocks, this is going nowhere, I wanna talk to that Englishwoman personage or some other hospital person there.
  • Heard some verbal kaffufle between Q and person(s) in the background: clearly, nobody wants to talk to me because of potential legal liability.

So I got to speak to an Englishwoman (sounded like one to me).

Me: This is not a legal call. This is for information purposes only. There will be no legal liability on your part for this. I am only asking for information related to the situation with this Chinese girl.

Hospital lady: Alright (sounding relieved).

Me: Can you confirm for me, you are the Somewheretown Medical Centre, please? (Be sure to say lots of ‘please’ with Englanders.)

Hospital lady: Yes, we are.

Me: Good. Finally, someone who speaks the same normal language as I do.

(Heard hospital lady making nervous semi-laugh.)

Me: Can I ask you to get someone in the hospital, perhaps even the hospital managers, to contact me regarding this Chinese girl? I am trained as a lawyer but I do not practise law. I am 7,000 miles away here in Hong Kong and I am completely in the dark as to the situation. Her parents are, frankly, useless. Can you let the hospital managers have them contact me by email, please?

(Email address given over.)

Hospital lady: If you’re not the legal representative, I don’t know if the hospital managers are going to let you receive any information about Q.

Me: I understand that. I understand the situation. I’m simply ringing to confirm that the situation exists. However, could you also let your hospital managers know that I’ve put in an official request for information with the Somewheretown Health Authority on 5th, 6th November and that I have prima facie position. Please tell them ‘prima facie‘ position; they will know what this means.

Hospital lady: Alright.

Me: Thank you, you’ve been very kind and helpful. Could you now pass me back to the Chinese girl, please?

So, I got shunted back to Q and the rest of the conversation with her just blew my arse off completely. I’ve had my arse blown away or chewed off many times before, but this one really beats the cake.

  • Q blames me for not helping because I’ve not answered her calls.
  • But your calls didn’t get through, Q.
  • Q doesn’t consider me trustworthy anymore to help.
  • I was highly stung by that.
  • I waited 6 or 7 days getting shit next to nothing from your mom and pop, and even less from your mum’s helper in the UK.
  • Q couldn’t calm down.
  • I couldn’t stay calm, so I really farkin’ yelled at her to STFU.
  • I yelled so loud that the windows in the next building blew out and killed everyone in the streets below. Effective population control.
  • Q calmed down.

Now we’re in the proper frame of mind to relay important details before the line breaks or Q has her phone confiscated:

  • I sound like yelling because the line’s bad.
  • We have to speak English because the line’s probably being monitored.
  • See gist points already given above.

What the hell has this UK helper been doing so far? Why the hell hasn’t the helper told Q of the detention status?

We had to end the call because I sensed the people probably in the background were getting uneasy about Q talking to me. Before ending, Q promised:

  • I’ll get her text-only SMS of the Somewheretown Police HQ telephone number.
  • That police number wouldn’t be the main switchboard shit-forever-automated number but an internal office one.

I have heard nothing from Q since.

We now take a short break for commercial messages…

* * *

Someone asked me, if I don’t read or write Chinese, how come I could write email to the parents in Chinese?

I work in the financial printing business. Work in this line occurs mostly at night (as well as overnight). You work with senior but difficult customers. This work requires high resourcefulness. In this line of business, it’s like, you don’t call in just an airstrike at the first sign of trouble. You call in a five-hour napalm airstrike before you send in the troops to kill any surviving dust. Success is not an option because it is the only objective.

Another asked, with all this going on, I must have got no time for feeding, the shit-shower-‘n-shave, etc. How do I manage?

You’re right. I won’t be in any mood to go down the street, grab a bite to eat, cook, have a drink, have a kip, or all the rest. But I ain’t gonna go that far and not shit/shower/shave and go hungry. I buy all the fruits I think I’ll need when I’d be lolling around for news. I buy crisps (BrE) / chips (AmE), sweets (BrE) / candies (AmE) and junk food to stay buzzed up.  Lots of coffee and soft drinks (BrE) / soda (AmE) / pop (AmE). I get my neighbour to cook prison-like food and leave it in my fridge for heating up later — reasonably healthy food to counteract the junk food. Ready rations, boy.

Still another asked, while I’m waiting around, what do I do in the meantime?

I ain’t fappin’, if that’s what you’re thinkin’. It’s not like a 007 James Bond movie where Jimmy Bond still has the yen and nerve to go around womanising anything that moves on two legs while being shot at by un-Christian, un-American, un-English, devil-worshipping, scotch-swilling, flashy-dressin’, financially savvy, overcultured, high-tech terrorist drug lords. How ever could Jim-boy get it up?

Derp.

The problem with the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland today is that ole’ Blighty is behaving like a semi-dispossessed colony of America’s.

All these years, the ‘My Land, Fair and Green’ has been taking in the we-know-what’s-best-because-it’s-backed-up-by-research drivel drummed up by lame Corporate America that even good ole’ American folks reject. Rather indiscrimately, I might add.

The last time I was in the UK (only a few years back), I couldn’t bleeding well even recognise the place. It’s not the physical side of the place — that’s stayed the same. It’s the people and their attitudes. Note ‘attitudes’ in plural.

In my days ‘over thar,’ British people (regardless of their size, weight, colour, pocket change) had one attitude. That attitude varies a bit from place to place, but it was the same attitude up and down the whole country.

Today, attitudes are everywhere. “My god, it’s full of stars,” as Dave said in his pod. At least now we know Darwinism has a negative side.

Constable Dixon 203

The very fabric of British life has changed, totally. The police are ALL armed — a big shock and disappointment to anyone who grew up ‘over thar’ with the British bobby weaponless. (They now hide the sidearm underneath the tunic). Indeed, the police ‘over thar’ now look like the paramilitary ninja-assassin-terrorist Schutzstaffel KGB GRU SAS Delta Force deathsquad commandos that my folks used to see in Latin America when we were living down there.

The British government denies all policemen are armed — that only specialist policemen with specialist training with specialist duties in specialist units in specialist-only target areas are actually armed.

Back in my days (hopefully not making myself sound too old), the IRA endearingly, thoughtfully, regularly, un-racist-ly bombed the shit out of us anywhere in England like clockwork on PAYE Day (i.e. every Thursday). Everyone went about their business regardless, had Ladies Night at the local disco regardless, the no-night-out lusers watched Top of the Tops on BBC1 at 7.30pm regardless, and the heroes were filling out next week’s UB40 for turning in the next morning regardless.

We had more trouble from ‘The Troubles’ back then in one month than we’ve had in the last 10 years combined, what with Al Qae-da-da-da-la-di-da and Hizbollocks on the loose today.

The police constable had a radio set (broken) and a truncheon, plus a pair of Doc Martens. The only weapon was his fat dick aimed at the nearest WPC, who usually couldn’t get enough of it. With no more than that, the bobby was able to do a fine job whilst having running battles with NF skinheads — the Mods running for cover — the punks and goths running in all directions — the Teddy Boys get run over — the Roxy Music/Human League-listening New Wavers running to buy concert tickets — plus the IRA — plus the Euroterrorists — plus Moonies and other suicide cultists — plus the Iraqis and Iranians streaming in to dodge their drafts — plus a totally WTF economy shredded to ribbons — plus a heat wave — and a rubbishmen’s strike. Britain back then was fucking horrible. It was a really nice place to live in.

People back then really cared to totally eff you up. At the end of the day, everyone, no matter what your colour or if you had only 47p in your pocket, sat around in the pub at night, and foreigners complained how other foreigners were ruining the country. And much fun was had by all that day.

Today, people are effed up and don’t care. There are no skinheads (because they all have Jewish kids now), no punks, no goths, no Teddy Boys (would be over 100 years old now), no New Wave faggots, nobody and nothing. The Chavs don’t count because they’re faggots and brain-damaged. You can only be one or the other, not both.

(I’ll tell you in a separate blogpost how to tell if a police constable is armed and what type of firearm he/she is carrying. I’ll even go as far as to tell you where the secondary, backup firearm is concealed and what type of weapon it is. Because that’s how they do it down in Latin America. It’s no big mystery. It’s a reject technique from the USA straight out of some ‘FM’ field manuals from the Sixties. I used to print banknotes for governments, man, I know these things.)

So, you go to the UK (BrE) / England (AmE) expecting to get an education, and what do you get?

You get the privilege of being burdened senseless for the next 10 years with tuition loans repayable at usurious interest rates to banks or building societies (BrE) / savings and loans associations (AmE) controlled by ‘Corporprat’ America.

You get the privilege of studying watered-down or doctored American knowledge that even good ole’ American folks found unworkable and gormless.

You get the privilege of owning heavy, non-A4 size tomes printed in pleasing pastel colours and contain ‘dynamically impactful’ graphics that you can’t read, or use after you leave uni.

And you have the privilege of being told straight down your throat that your B.Sc., B.A., B.Ed., B-whatever, M.A., M.Phil, MBA, Ph.D. degree is good enough for a clerking job and the sure-fire gateway to a brilliant career.

You have 10 years or less to pay up, or the repo men will come after your arse. That’s why we have the London riots the other day.

Now that’s edumacation.

* * *

Welcome back to The Naked Listener.

In the last segment, Q’s finally made voice contact yesterday but was in a haze about her condition, her predicament and her helper or helpers. The fact that I’ve managed to speak to someone at the hospital is a good sign. The fact that I’ve heard nothing from the authorities despite that is not so good.

Thursday, 11th November 2010

9.20 am local time

After eight solid days of waiting, explaining, excusing and begging via hieroglyphic email, I get this 9.20 am email from the parents (typos uncorrected):

Dear Robert,

Thank you very much for your helpness to Q and taking your so many times to send your emails. Please forgive us for misunderstanding because of  the different languages and concept.

Although at beginning, we thaught you could fly to UK to fetch Q for me actually. That is why I ask for your help. Thereafter both of us gave up this idea because we are not sure when Q can leave the hospital.

But I believe you want to help Q together with us for only one goal that is Q can be discharged earlier than 28 days as you are her good friend. So did [UK helper]. Mr. [UK helper]’s email is ukhelper@invisiblemail.com. you could get more details about Q from him.

I had asked him to email you and he agreed but these days he was busy to the hospital to deal with the problems of Q. There is 3 weeks left, I  think we have a schedul first.

Best regards

[Q’s parents]

Quick thoughts about that email:

  • It’s in English. Derp.
  • There’s no misunderstanding about language or “concept.”
  • Compartmentalised thinking isn’t a concept. It’s being unable to think straight.
  • Releasing a helper’s email after another helper practically begged 7 or 8 days solid over 40 emails isn’t a difference or misunderstanding in “concept.” It’s called fucking retarded.
  • As a Chinese person, I cannot accept this retardedness. As any other person, I am refusing to accept this brain-damagedness.
  • The grammar’s pretty good, actually. Wow, I’m a lawyer and even I don’t use the word ‘thereafter.’ Watch out for the last sentence in 2nd paragraph. Clearly, somebody else wrote that for them. You can’t get that in an online translator. (Trust me, I checked.)
  • The language is consistent with that of a Chinaman who had spent some time in the UK. Go figure that one out.

Other thoughts:

  • How retarded does a person have to be to actually think, even momentarily, that one could actually pick up and go to the UK and just fetch someone out of detention?
  • If you, parents, were foreigners in the Old Country and in detention, how possible is it for your daughter to fly the pair of you out of detention, just like that?
  • It isn’t fucking possible, is it?

One more thought:

  • How long does it take for anyone to realise this after the first or second email from me explaining the whys and wherefores of the detention order?

Extra thought:

  • I don’t want to contact this UK helper anymore. I am no longer able to feel confident or reliable about this person’s ability or intentions based on what I have seen (or, actually, not seen) from this person. My reasons will be given in a separate blogpost.

7.41 pm (12.41 pm GMT)

While I was organising a dossier on this case, I got this SMS-bounce-email from Q at 7.41 pm (12.41 pm English time):

“Dear Mr Perry Mason and all other lawyers doctors nurses and immigration embassy security staff, it’s Ms Q here who has been detended [sic] by somewheretown security in NUH NHS TRUST SMC campus for 7 days in Assessment unit SH1THOL3 under compulsory dispensation [sic]. I, on behalf of myself, am urgently need YOU to be my UK barrister who is able to represent me chasing and appeal for my life insurance in [old country], medical insurance in [enclave], finicial insurance in USA. Remember, I use to help you learning Mandarin but later on was abused by your girlfriend Slash who was doing Mathematics in the same university as I did – University of Somewheretown. I joined the University in September 2008, student ID 8008IES. I need you and your girlfriend’s apology. I am afraid you must do this for me – Please can you confirm your working telephone number and working hours today, I need to speak to you on the phone directly. Ms Q.”

Srsly, it’s serious business when you’re living through the Mushroom Theory of Management (leave you in the dark, feed you shit, then pick on you) and having to read a message like that.

It’s serious business all round, when your arse has been chewed off ages ago by paying customers and, now, your balls have rolled into corner as a result of brick-shatting retardation of the people asking for your help and then you get blown out of the water by the very person you’re trying to help.

Aren’t people just a fucking ray of sunshine?

* * *

Photo credits (all images pilfered and used without permission):

Facepalm by ShakataGaNai and tiny bit by Rama via WikiMedia Commons (reproduced under the Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 3.0 Unported licence).

Red phone via RentSoda.

Hospital staff graphic via FotoSearch.

Sign language via Beyond Help.

Coke/Junk Food Bouquet via PersonalizedWrappers, Ann Arbor, Michigan, USA.

Constable Dixon 203 via BBC.

Retarded twins via eBaumsworld.

© The Naked Listener’s Weblog, 2010.

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