Baby P. How typically British

17-month-old baby boy tortured to death during 8-month period and after numerous visits to hospital. Social workers visited the family 60 times. The doctor failed to notice the boy had a snapped spine the day before he died and sent him home to the living Hell from which only death would release him 48 hours later. Welcome to Britain, where for Baby P. only death was better than life.

Photo: Baby P. How typically British

Baby P. How typically British

A 17-month-old boy, called Baby P. to protect the identity of his mother’s boyfriend, who tortured him to death over eight months, and the child’s mother, who in turn allowed her son to die. How typically British that more energy should be spent protecting the identities of these two child murderers than in protecting the defenceless and innocent baby boy.

Welcome to Britain, more specifically the London Borough of Haringey, the same one where an eight-year-old girl, Victoria Climbie, was tortured and starved to death eight years ago and the same one that drew up a long list of checks to make sure nothing of the sort happened again. It did, to Baby P.

This toddler died in bloodstained clothing, little trousers which on another child might be caked with mud, were splattered with blood while a brightly-coloured top to protect his upper body was more like a shroud to temporarily hide the horrific injuries being meted out on him over eight long months. A 240-day period of Hell which saw a lively young boy with his life ahead of him to look forward to, turn into a sullen and silent, troubled toddler, crawling around his garden eating mud, silent because he was terrified to make a noise.

This toddler was visited no less than sixty times by the authorities over this eight-month period in 2007. He was on the child protection register of Haringey Council, North London. This toddler had over fifty injuries, ranging from serious bruising to his head, to a snapped spine. Two days before he died, he was discharged by a “doctor”, despite having eight fractured ribs and being paralysed from the waist down. His back had snapped after he was bent over a chair or banister, his fingernails and toenails had been ripped out, his lips were crushed, his ears were almost ripped off. As if this wasn’t enough, he died alone in his cot after being punched in the mouth so hard that it smashed his teeth.

Who, or rather what, was behind this saga? The 32-year-old boyfriend of the child’s 27-year-old mother, who together with a paedophile lodger, who lived with a 15-year-old, stood by and watched as the Nazi, knife-collecting illiterate unemployed psychopath systematically brutalised and tortured a 17-month-old boy to death, the same man who had been arrested for torturing his dying grandmother in an attempt to get her to change her will.

Yet this “man” was found not guilty of murder and “might” face “up to” 14 years in jail.

How typically British. This undescribable excuse for a piece of pig excrement tortures to death a young boy who should have had a circle of friends, who should have known what it was like to have a loving family, who should have been looking forward to Christmas, and he (sorry, it) “might” face “up to” fourteen years in jail. And be eligible for parole after seven? Before its fortieth birthday?

How typically British. One has only to walk into a British pub these days to find oneself surrounded by a host of ale-swigging demented psycopathic nutters, with sheer evil etched into every fibre of their being, spoiling for a fight. How many more of these lunatics are roaming around Britain’s streets? Quite a few. Only yesterday a mother stabbed her two kids to death. With parents like these, who needs enemies?

How typically British that the mother sat back and did nothing. Described as a “slob” she watched as her own son was being beaten, used as a punchbag, spun around on a chair till he fell off, was forced to sit silently on the floor for half an hour with his head between his legs, was kicked, abused, had his ears nearly ripped off and his spine snapped... and did nothing. Absolutely nothing, except make excuses for her boyfriend.

How typically British that neither she, nor her paedophile lodger and his child-lover who were staying there, lifted a finger to help the baby boy. They probably watched on and shrugged their shoulders. How typically British – in the country where mothers do not hold or kiss their babies, where touching someone is regarded as an act of perversion, where instead of hugging and kissing and shaking hands, people stand in awkward embarrassment, nodding and wondering whether their interlocutor will make some sort of attempt at physical contact. Then they are surprised when the entire nation turns into a country full of repressed and retentive orifices.

How typically British of nobody to have said anything while this horror movie was unfolding before everyone’s eyes. One wonders whether anyone said “Bad form” or “Jolly bad show” or “I say” or “Gosh”. Maybe on the report by the social services one can read “Gosh, I say! Bad form, jolly bad show, what?” except it would probably be misspelt or written in Urdu.

How typically British that the doctor, one Sabah Alzayyat, was in the first place a doctor, since he or she was incapable of diagnosing the slight and paltry detail of a snapped spine. Maybe the doctor thought the child was being silly? Or pretending. Children should be seen and not heard, eh? Where did Dr. Sabah get the diploma? Downloaded it from the Net? Or was it from the University of Ungabangaland? How typically British that this joke, this excuse for healthcare professional, was allowed to practise medicine. It was probably enough to be foreign to be admitted, as one can see when one lands at Heathrow or Gatwick airport, where the visitor to England will be confronted by a fat Afro-Caribbean official slumped in a chair with his legs apart and his flies open, telling the weary travellers to “hurry up”, and be attended by a weird and wonderful myriad of creatures with turbans, shadors and the like, who are responsible for saying who gets into Britain. It would not be at all surprising next Christmas to be confronted by some woman in a burqah who refuses entry because one does not know how to reply to the greeting Salaam Aleikhum!

How typical of Britain that in the same council where a girl was tortured and starved to death, that after sixty visits, not six, this poor child was left with these utter monsters and condemned to die a horrendous death after months of permanent pain and suffering..

How typical of Britain, a nation of po-faced, spineless voyeurs, utterly incapable of doing anything whatsoever to help a defenceless child being beaten, punched and kicked to death. His last act was to swallow one of the teeth that had been smashed down his throat by the utter bloody bastard who, one hopes, will have his identity revealed to his fellow prisoners and who, one hopes, will be the target for every lunatic hitman from the four corners of the Earth once he is released, which knowing Britain, will be very soon, before he is given a pardon, a hefty cheque, a written apology from the Prime Minister and accommodated in a five-star hotel.

What a country!

John BARNCASTLE

PRAVDA.Ru