The Wrath of Coe

The effective investigator knows when to muster compassion and when to summon wrath. Any individual inspired by anger is liable to blunder. His judgement his inevitably flawed, his motives open to question. Miscarriages of justice are invariably perpetrated by detectives who have allowed themselves to be riled into frenzies of indignation. Few, if any, policemen will concede the fact that their role is (or ought to be) largely janitorial. Their talents are adequate to the apprehension of muggers and wife-beaters and in this realm of what I refer to as basic criminality, their diligence is invaluable. In dealing with more complex issues, however, the average policeman, immaterial of how many courses he's been through, is hopelessly out of his depth. I've no intention, at this time, of further debating the potential role of gifted amateurs in detection. The facts speak for themselves. More often than not, entrusting a complicated investigation to a police officer is like putting a microwave in charge of a kitchen. He is functional, but lacks inspiration. Of course, since television writers encouraged policemen to construct images of themselves as mavericks, the issue has become even more confused. Fifteen years ago, a policeman could be identified by the combination of scowl and moustache. They were robotic but, by and large, competent. Now they've assumed artistic licence. They gel their hair, wear clothes their predecessors would have considered grounds for suspicion and openly discuss personal crises. They consider themselves creative, a terrible misconception that has undermined the quality of justice in this country to the extent that the very word elicits involuntary smirks.

"Is there a point here, Hamilton?" demands the reader. "You started out on compassion, which was very interesting, but somehow you ended up drivelling on about the use of hair gel in the police force which, I can assure you, is not." The more tolerant reader will forgive my assumption: I'm basing his hypothetical response on Spencer and Christine's. For everybody else, I can only apologise and concede that my prevarication is caused by an uneasy conscience. The point is my irritation with John Smeaton, the baggage handler credited with thwarting the attack on Glasgow airport. Anger, of course, is an impediment to clarity. While I defy anyone not to be irked by the presence of a leotard clad poltroon intent on a charity 'cage fight', my own response should have been tempered by empathy. The purpose of this post is to apologise.

I've been predisposed to disapprove of Smeaton from the outset. A smalltown nonentity thrust into the role of global spokesman, it seemed that he was demanding praise for nothing more than kicking a man when he was down (or, more precisely, on fire). Now it's alleged that he didn't kick anyone at all, but hovered on the periphery of proceedings, only coming to prominence when the dust had settled and cameras appeared. After lavishing in his unexpected celebrity, he's discovered what any countryman might have told him from the outset: the cock that crows the loudest is the first to find his neck on the chopping block.

"We'll set about ye," he famously squawked on behalf of his fellow Glaswegians. With horrible irony, Smeaton himself has now become their prey. After an initial period of indulgence, he's perceived to have become too big for the polished Ghillie brogues in which he's been swaggering around civic receptions from London to New York and Los Angeles. Despite acknowledging the part played by others in subduing the hapless assailants, he finds himself increasingly excluded from the circle of have-a-go heroes resentful that their own efforts haven't been similarly recognised. "Smeaton's all talk," they scowl bringing to mind a modern day equivalent of the tailor who killed seven flies before convincing his fellows that the notches on his sword could be accounted to desperados. Smeaton, whose public statements have evoked a band of brothers forever bonded by the co-incidence of their presence on that fateful day, can only be wounded by their revised assessment of his own role. One can only surmise why individuals ostensibly determined to avoid the limelight should denigrate someone who revels in it. Like it or not, the roles have been cast! Smeaton is the undoubted star. Can we not share his pride and enjoy his bumptious exuberance? I urge his detractors to return their daggers to their scabbards before farce becomes tragedy.

As the dark clouds of envy and contention cluster around Smeaton's briefly iridescent star, we should recognise the plight of ordinary people who subject themselves to the limelight only to be found wanting. Which of us could withstand such remorseless attention? Like participants in reality television shows, Smeaton is discovering that those who enjoy his personality are less likely to make public their opinion than those who don't. "Nobody asked him to strut around blowing his trumpet," the reader might retort, but that's not the case. We invite people to express themselves and then make them egregious. Is there a more terrible reflection on our age than the sight of some unfortunate numbskull emerging from the Big Brother house, a tentative smile compressing into a pout of dismay as the disapproval of the mob becomes apparent. "We don't like you," they yell, regressing to the level of children turning on a red-headed class-mate. Let's not abandon John Smeaton to the same psychic annihilation!

 

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