Portsmouth Police breaking the law again

They don’t have the time and resources to solve crimes against individuals, unless those individuals have been killed, but they do still have the time and resources to send two or three cars to follow me and hunt me through the city to play PacMan.

They love playing PacMan with migrants and with women.

They first did this to me in 2009. February it was.

Of course, when you call them out on it, they always say that they don’t have the time and resources for that kind of crap.

So on my way back, I walked up to the central police station in Portsmouth, and addressed its CCTV camera:

You. Need. To. Observe. The. Law.

The law!


That’s the kind of police we have in Britain – barbaric, lawless and abusive – for which we pay through our council tax. They’re straight out of a film of police brutality and incompetence of the wild-west US in the past.

Two or three police cars were following me all over town again yesterday evening, slowing down when they passed me, backing up and returning when I took a left or right, etc.

It’s happened many times before.

And this kind of crap takes up most of their time. Hunting down citizens who dare report crimes and who dare stand up against the utterly lawless British police. They don’t seem to do anything else but this.

I have on occasion stood by on purpose myself to serve as possible witness in police brutality cases when I saw them hunt other people. But they are too clever to attack people in plain public view, I am sure.

We pay for this harassment through our council tax. We pay for it ourselves!

Portsmouth has the highest CCTV density of the UK, so yes, police can hunt anyone through the city, in retaliation or just for fun.

I also got a creep on a bicycle after me, along Albert Road, to tell me that women deserve to go hungry, should not be allowed to own any property of any kind, should not be allowed to work and should not be allowed to earn a living, or even be healthy and happy and that they should generally keep their mouths shut.

I told him it was the 21st century, that the middle ages were a long time ago and I crossed the road. The kid was not even half my age. He should apologize to all the women he owes his existence to, starting with his mother, but he won’t see it that way, clearly. In his eyes, women are lower than cattle. Usable and disposable. Not worth shit.

In case you wonder what the hell I am still doing in this shitty hell hole, well, I’ve tried to escape four times already, and managed to make it to Amsterdam twice, but each time this was cunningly sabotaged by my stalkers (see home page). I also sometimes foolishly think that I can help make things better here, simply through my presence (as someone from a more developed, more civilized country, more modern country, more relaxed country; even though that country is not my favourite, I am not blind to its advantages).

Also, I had formally raised the issue about the problems with local police this week. Some retaliation was to be expected.

There is a French woman in Devon that British police also used to hunt and demonize. I don’t know how she is doing these days. I’ve read about her in the newspapers.

This photo below shows you what my door looks like when I am not in, these days. Three locks on the inside, warning note on the outside and a barricade in front of it, to stop, eh, anonymous elements, that is, apparently currently my immediate downstairs neighbour – who came flying out of his flat again when he heard me come up the stairs last night – from shimmying the locks and carrying out nasty crap in my flat – which has been going on since 2011, with the approval of Portsmouth Police.

He had threatened me on the stair case a few days ago – which scared me, and made me retreat, which he liked.

His dog bit me so badly months ago that my arm/wrist sometimes still hurts as a result (and I had the vague impression that the incident was not entirely accidental, that the dog had actually been sent, released or directed somehow, to charge me) and who damaged the coat I was wearing next time I saw the dog, when it came flying out of his flat when I went down the stairs.

The only reason why I haven’t pressed the problem with the dog – I could have, successfully, as my arm had swollen up grotesquely and the bite had broken skin – is that the dog would get blamed whereas the neighbour is the real problem. He is really nasty, mean, vicious and maybe half my age and a really big guy. The kind of guy who would easily let the dog take the fall for his own nastiness.

And who could I have pressed it with? I would have needed to make it a civil case. Time-consuming and costly.




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