They call him ‘our thief’. He’s well-known to the residents of St Maur Road, Parsons Green, in South West London.
They know who he is, what he looks like, where he lives. They have iPhone photos and doorbell videos of him nicking parcels from their doorsteps.
It’s the same bloke – grey baseball cap, occasionally worn back-to-front, like Kevin the Teenager; black wife-beater T-shirt, sometimes a short-sleeve Adidas job; stupid knee-length cargo shorts, which look ridiculous on grown men; grey socks and trainers; and distinctive footballer-style tattoos, some of them animal-shaped.
He’s even got an ankle tag, which presumably means he’s ‘known to police’. Probably let out of prison by Labour under the early-release scheme, which has flooded the streets with recidivists.
The Sunday Times carried four photos of him, supplied by residents, the sort of thing you used to get on the BBC’s Crimewatch or Shaw Taylor’s ‘Keep ‘em peeled’ Police Five on ITV.
Of late, he’s taken to riding an e-bike (almost certainly stolen) for a quick getaway, after a number of locals chased him on foot. But still he comes back most days, stealing Amazon, DHL and other deliveries in broad daylight.
Residents have furnished the evidence to the police but Plod aren’t interested, even though he’s easily identifiable. A note for the insurance is the best they can hope for.
The nearest nick closed years ago. The only police presence is a part-time ‘counter’ open a couple of miles away in Hammersmith. Foot patrols have gone the way of Dixon Of Dock Green, just as they have everywhere else in the country.
Once upon a time we had bobbies on the beat. Now we’ve got thieves on the beat instead.
Parsons Green’s shameless parcel thief has been caught in the act by Ring camera footage
The man well-known to the residents of St Maur Road, Parsons Green, in South West London
The postman always rings twice, according to the 1946 film noir (and the erotic 1981 remake starring Jack Nicholson and Jessica Lange).
But ‘our thief’ of Parsons Green doesn’t need to bother ringing at all. He just gathers up the parcels and legs it, only to return the following day – secure in the knowledge that there is less than zero chance of him being apprehended by Old Bill.
Some blame the delivery companies for dumping the boxes on doorsteps when the recipients are out. And yes, I know we no longer live in a world where everyone keeps their doors unlocked just in case a neighbour wants to drop in to borrow a cup of sugar.
But that’s not the point.
Crimewatch was cancelled in 2017, Police Five a couple of years earlier, around the time they realised that the police simply couldn’t be bothered to investigate what they contemptuously dismiss as ‘petty crimes’ any more.
Foot patrols? No call for them, guv. Actual police stations on every High Street? Flog ‘em off to McDonald’s, or Gail’s Bakery, or some spivvy property developer who will turn them into flats for ‘asylum seekers’.
Burglary? You must be joking. It’s your own fault. Should have bought an alarm system.
Shoplifting – or, more accurately, daylight robbery? When my local pharmacy in North London suffered from a series of blatant ‘walk-in’ thefts, Plod told them to hire a private security guard. The gentlemen’s outfitters in the same parade keeps its front door locked, You have to ring a bell to be let in.
As I wrote here a while ago, there was a machete fight outside our fish‘n’chip shop opposite the Tube station, caught on CCTV, but to the best of my knowledge no one has ever been nicked.
The day we moved in to our present home, almost 30-years ago, the local neighbourhood bobby popped in for a cup of tea – but only to tell us that he was being transferred to some soulless HQ on the other side of town.
The nearest nick closed to the public more than 25 years ago.
Shortly afterwards, a student was stabbed to death on the front steps, while the coppers inside, munching Hobnobs, refused to answer his pleas for help.
We live in what’s usually described as a ‘leafy’ suburb. Parsons Green is much posher – stomping ground of Sloane Rangers like the late Lady Di and home to the Tim Nice-But-Dim pub the White Horse (aka the Sloaney Pony, not to be confused with the Stone Pony, Asbury Park, New Jersey) – where the average property falls well inside Labour’s ‘mansion tax’ bracket.
He just gathers up the parcels and legs it, only to return the following day
It’s hardly a walk on the wild side, yet the police can’t even be bothered to arrest a serial thief when the evidence is staring them in the face.
The Met said in a statement: ‘Officers are currently investigating three reports of theft on St Maur Road, Parsons Green.’
No, they’re not.
A spokesman added: ‘Brazen criminality such as this will not be tolerated.’
Yes, it will.
As I was reading the Sunday Times story about ‘our thief’ in Parsons Green, I looked up at GB News to see the feminist Kellie-Jay Keen describing how she’d been visited several times by police officers to warn her about her ‘gender-critical’ views – ie: women don’t have willies.
Sounds about right.
As I’ve been writing for as long as I can remember, these days the Old Bill is more interested in policing the internet for ‘hate speech’ than patrolling the streets and catching real life criminals.
And, from what I’ve seen, most of the new recruits have got more tattoos than ‘our thief’ in Parsons Green.
Mind How You Go.
In last week’s ‘Through The Keyhole’ column about Labour’s money-grabbing ‘mansion tax’, I remembered John Prescott’s plans to fleece home owners with a ‘nice view’, backing on to a park or golf course, etc.
That scam has now been dusted off by Andy Pandy, who also wants to punish those with driveways, double garages, nice gardens, conservatories and more than one bathroom.
I thought at the time that Two Jags had it in for me personally (and I could understand why, since he hated the fact that I christened him ‘Two Jags’).
No, we haven’t got a conservatory, and even though we’ve got a double garage we’ve only got one car. But we have got more than one bathroom (something Michael Caine insisted was essential for a happy marriage). And as I may have mentioned before, our garden backs on to a golf course.
Still, I can see no reason why we should be hammered by an even more vindictive mansion tax.
I shouldn’t think my next council tax bill will take into account the fact that what passes for a lawn has been destroyed by grub-hungry badgers, shrubbery eaten by stray muntjacs and the patio used as a public convenience by urban bloody foxes.
I suppose a discount is out of the question?
Having renamed the Gulf of Mexico the ‘Gulf of America’, Donald Trump has fallen out with Canada and has decided to rename Lake Ontario the ‘Lake of America’. After claiming both a gulf and a lake, I’m rather hoping he’ll get round to renaming the English Channel ‘the Channel of America’ and then deal with the illegal boat migrants in the same way he’s stopped the invasion over the US southern border with Mexico.
Mark Carney may be resisting Canada becoming the 51st US state, but when he was governor of the Bank of England he was dead keen on the UK remaining a vassal state of the EU. So Trump’s territorial ambition serves him right. Still, our Canadian cousins have at least managed to smile in the face of Trump’s latest land (lake?) grab. My sister lives just across the river from Canada, in Detroit.
She tells me that in Ontario they are joking that it’s only a matter of time before Canada Geese are renamed ‘Donald’s Ducks’.
