A deficit of common sense in our institutions is having catastrophic and often tragic consequences. In some, this is a deliberate strategy, replace discretion with protocol, but there are consequences
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[* N.B. This is a rewrite of an article I published over the weekend, I had written it in the Substack App – bad idea – which makes it impossible to edit. This is the edited and rewritten version which also corrects several errors.]
There was a time when discretion was considered a virtue in public service. When a policeman could resolve a dispute with a quiet word, when a nurse or care worker could rely on professional instinct, and when judgment wasn’t a liability but an expectation. Today, that era feels as distant as the gas lamp and the village bobby. We live now in a Britain where common sense has been systematically replaced with policy. And in the case of Donald Burgess, it ended with tragedy.
Burgess was in his 90s, frail, he had one leg, was wheelchair bound and suffering from advanced dementia. On top of this he had a severe Urinary Tract Infection and anyone with elderly relatives knows that infection can significantly impact mental functionality in the elderly. Aged relatives describe the impact of an infection on the geriatric mind: like being drunk without the fun, and also experiencing total amnesia whilst under the influence of the infection, a symptom of the elderly body shutting down all necessary activities, including memory, to fight it.
Mr Burgess was a resident was in a care home, confused, possibly frightened, and holding a table knife flicking food demanding to speak to the manager and apparently threatening that he would stab him.. with a stainless steel table knife suitable for spreading butter on a roll. Once, this would have been met with kindness, patience, or a gentle redirection. Today, in the age of “zero tolerance,” that butter knife became “a weapon,” and the police were summoned. To support their subsequent actions the police report described the knife as ‘serrated’ no doubt to invoke the public terror of ‘zombie knives’ and the serrated bayonets of popular WW1 memory, which were shunned by the actual soldiers because being caught with one by the enemy would result in swift retribution.
The rest is now a matter of a criminal trial currently being held in Sussex. Officers arrived, immediately concluded that Mr Burgess was a dangerous threat and over the next 82 seconds used such violence to disarm him from this eating utensil that they used a whole canister of pepper spray, before the same officer, the 51 year old burly PC Stephen Smith deployed his telescopic truncheon, so nasty is what follows most news channels including the report for C4 News I link to below, blur out the events. But you can hear the whacks and the screams.
It doesn’t take much to imagine the effect of such a baton, which is such an effective weapon the general public are banned from owning them, at force, on the wrist of a frail old man. A 6 ft tall copper who uses such on violent rioters in their 20’s now applies it to the delicate and brittle bones and paper thin skin of the aged wrist, in a shattering break. So blinded with pepper spray Mr Burgess suffers the quite unique pain of a broken wrist. Now, whilst PC Smith was laying about Mr Burgess with his baton, his erstwhile colleague, PC Rachel Commotto decided to join in shouting ‘TASER! TASER! TASER! and shooting him in the chest delivering 1500 volts almost at the same time as as the baton smashes the bones of the wrist.
Mr Burgess was taken to hospital for his injuries where he passed away 22 days, we were assured by the authorities that his subsequent death had nothing to do with the assault and violence of two weeks earlier. Really? Rarely have I seen a more blatant example of semantics and cherry picking to justify not charging these two thugs with manslaughter. Anyone who has spent any time with the elderly and frail knows that an event like this in their lives can be utterly devastating, and at such age life is like dominoes, all it takes is a relatively minor fall or incident in the lives of those in their thirties to start the dominoes falling. These two Uniformed Civilians are currently on trial for the assault of Mr Burgess, the manslaughter charge clearly being too difficult to prove. Here the law showing its inadequacy, yes, Mr Burgess was in his 90s, yes, he was in poor health but the link is obvious.
Police Constable Stephen Smith, he of the enthusiastic baton use and pepper spray, told the court, in a remarkable revelation that observation is obviously no longer a criteria for recruitment that: “he did not see that (Donald Burgess, 92,) was disabled and in a wheelchair before he used Pava spray, and then a baton before making an arrest. Really? And what other chairs have ruddy great spoked wheels? Meanwhile PC Rachel Commoto blubbed on the stand as she tried to argue that she had used her taser on Mr Burgess because she was horrified that her colleague was about to clobber him with a baton and she decided it was the ‘best way to keep him (Mr Burgess) safe.’ An incredulous prosecutor asked her why she did’t simply tell PC Smith to stop his assault.
Segway – has anyone else noticed modern policing’s passion for ‘keeping people safe’ by subjecting them to their licensed state violence? This is how they justify the arresting of counter protestors and their violent arrests of Christian evagvelist and former Muslim, Hatun Tash at Speaker’s Corner of all places.
Now unless we have started actively recruiting psychopaths into our care homes and police forces, no one meant for this to happen. Not the care home staff. Not the officers even. But intent is beside the point. This tragedy wasn’t caused by malice; it was caused by systems. Systems that no longer permit discretion. Systems that value protocol over humanity. Systems that, unless you constantly challenge these protocols and test them for relevance, become systems of inhuman psychopathy.
Now, I don’t know the exact policies in place at that care home. But as an HR professional who has worked extensively in the care sector, I can say with confidence that what happened is consistent with the norm: zero-tolerance policies, strict safeguarding frameworks, and employee training that stresses box-ticking over judgment. If there’s even a theoretical risk, staff are instructed to escalate. So when an elderly man flicks food with a butter knife, procedure inevitably dictates: call the police. Add on that the weaponisation of victimhood in employee/employer relations. Now no one deserves to have food flicked at them at work but when caring for the vulnerable such scenarios are inevitable. It goes with the job. We don’t hold the very young or the insane responsible for crimes because they are unable to take responsibility for their actions.
And the police? They follow their own strict protocols. When Harry Miller won his Court of Appeal case over the Orwellian concept of a “non-crime hate incident” (NCHI), he visited the Chief Constable of Humberside Police. There, he was told the quiet part out loud: The last thing we want is common sense in the field or words to that effect. Let that sink in. The police, as a matter of institutional culture, are trained not to assess, but to apply rules mechanically. Tick the box. Follow the flowchart. Don’t think. Don’t feel. Just comply.
This bureaucratic religion is not confined to policing or care. It pervades every institution. Consider the case of the man fined for rescuing a drowning child in lockdown because he had breached Covid regulations. Or the pensioner charged with criminal damage for trimming a hedge that blocked a road sign. Or the countless teachers suspended not for misconduct, but for momentarily exercising professional instinct in a system that no longer trusts professionals.
In this culture, the rules must be followed to the letter, not the spirit. Why? Because no one wants to be blamed. Bureaucracy is a fortress against accountability. And common sense? That’s a risk. It can’t be audited. It doesn’t produce a paper trail. Worse still, it suggests personal responsibility. So instead of empowering people, we infantilise them. We turn professionals into clerks, carers into call handlers, and police officers into protocol bots. When something goes wrong, the institution will say, “We followed procedure.” But who will ask if the procedure made any sense?
Britain used to be rather good at this. We didn’t need to be told how to deal with a butter knife and a confused old man. The bobby on the beat would have known what to do. So would the matron or the orderly. But they have all been replaced—not by people, but by systems. Systems that are cold, performative, and, in cases like Donald Burgess’s, fatal.
We do not need more regulation. We need more judgment. More courage to empower front-line workers. More trust in the experience of those who deal with real human beings. Because systems without sense are not safe. They are dangerous.
So a man dies, a life of 92 years, a life of memories from childhood, memories of love, friends, partners, children, the highs and lows of a life life, of grief, of stress but of joy and happiness. Until he encountered two people we pay to keep The King’s peace. The tragedy of Donald Burgess should remind us all what happens when we forget that.
This article (What Happened to Systemic Common Sense?) was created and published by C.J. Strachan and is republished here under “Fair Use”
See Related Article Below
An afternoon with Mister English
A story of policemen, mental health and fire extinguishers
‘English by name, English by nature.’
DOMINIC ADLER
This story is grim. Two Sussex police officers are on trial for assault after using CS spray, a baton and Taser on a 92-year old man. Who was in a wheelchair. In a care home. And he only had one leg. Yes, he was being aggressive, as people with dementia sometimes are. He had a small knife. The manager of the care home told Southwark Crown Court Donald Burgess ‘looked like he was possessed.’ Mr. Burgess died three weeks later, having contracted covid.
Still. It’s ugly.
As I write, the trial’s ongoing, so I shan’t comment further. I do, however, note the dry language used in court about the tactical options open to officers;
Ian Mills, a use of force expert said using the Taser after other options had failed was a “viable action” and not something he would criticise.
Mr Mills told jurors the situation had reached the point where “all the other options have failed” and using a Taser provided a rapid resolution.
This is where we are. Protocols and process-mapped decision-making models. ‘Accredited professional practice’ in action I suppose. The slow, strangulated death of commonsense. Hey, maybe Donald Burgess was a clear and present danger. Maybe he wasn’t. A jury will decide, which is as it should be.
Although I suspect 99.9% of the general public have already made their minds up.
The story reminded me of an incident I always planned to write about. By the way, this genuinely isn’t a case of ‘look at how better we dealt with things back in the day’. Trust me, we did lots of stuff badly back in the day. We were poorly-equipped, occasionally cavalier and, when it came to dealing mental health, virtually untrained. I remember a lecture on the subject at Hendon, where we were told we’d occasionally encounter people suffering from ‘harmless delusions’ (I did – they were usually in the chief inspector’s office).
We had no tasers or incapacitant sprays. This lack of ‘tactical options’ made you think, primarily because you had to. Again, this isn’t a screed against tooled-up coppers. If you read my stuff, you’ll know I’m robust when it comes to equipping officers with the tools necessary for the job. I’m just old-fashioned, inasmuch I genuinely believe there’s room for both carrot and stick. Besides, I’m a lover, not a fighter.
Anyhow, back to my story. To set the mood, here’s a picture of funky, swinging Portobello Road. Where, circa 1996, I was patrolling in a northerly direction:
Portobello market in the 1990s; still rough around the edges, but gentrifying at the speed of sound.
The call was to a disturbance to the mental hospital on St. Charles Square. A panda car picked me up, the Pc driving a lugubrious former trainee detective. He’d been tossed back into uniform when the then-Commissioner closed the CID school at Hendon. Disgusted, he was moving to a northern force. ‘Would you mind dealing with this?’ he said. ‘The last thing I need’s a complaint. It’ll fuck up my transfer.’ He was a nice enough bloke, so I agreed.
Inside the hospital I was met by a nurse. Back then, mental health nurses came in two flavours: (1) normal-looking women in scrubs and (2) fucking enormous blokes in scrubs. I did wonder, given the male nurses looked like rugby prop forwards, why they needed little old me. I mentioned this to the nurse. ‘Because Mister English is clever,’ she said. ‘He’s more likely to do what a policeman says.’
‘Why?’ I asked, taking off my silly police helmet.
‘Because he knows it pisses us off,’ the nurse sighed. Then she led me into the TV room. The furniture was smashed to bits, the windows broken. The TV was working, though, showing the snooker. ‘There you go,’ said the nurse. ‘Please get Mary out of there, would you?’
Which was when I met Mister English, who was armed with a big red fire extinguisher. I’m using his real name because it’s relevant to the story, but also because I liked him. I also strongly suspect he’s no longer with us. Anyhow, Mister English certainly isn’t the villain of this story, because this is a story without villains. I hope, if anyone remembers him, they’ll understand I’m writing this story from a place of kindness.
I recall Mister English was in his sixties, perhaps. A wiry man, grey-haired and unshaven, dressed in his pyjamas. His face was gnarly, as if he’d worked outdoors for much of his life. Like a few people I’ve met suffering from acute mental health problems, Mister English looked completely sane. Looking at the heavy steel fire extinguisher, I slid the long acrylic baton from the loop on my belt. The situation, I realised, could go sideways. I was also wary of using my radio; one piece of advice I’d been given was to switch radios off around people suffering from schizophrenia (they hear enough voices as it is).
Remember Mary? She was a little old lady in a dressing gown, sitting on a chair in the middle of the room. Surrounded by debris, she was happily watching men in bow ties and waistcoats potting balls on green baize. I looked at her. She looked at the telly. I looked at Mister English. Mister English looked at Mary, then at the baton in my hand. It was an unlikely Mexican standoff. ‘Hello Mister English,’ I said. ‘My name’s Dom. Would you put the fire extinguisher down please?’
‘No.’
‘Okay, can we get Mary out of the room?’
‘Why?’ said Mister English. ‘She’s fine.’
‘You’ve smashed up the room. You’re carrying a fire extinguisher like you might hit someone with it.’
Mister English screwed up his face in concentration. I shook my head; this was nothing like the hostage negotiations you saw on the telly. No, Mister English wasn’t going to ask for pizza, a million dollars and a plane to Brazil. ‘What’s gonna happen if I don’t?’ he said. He was half-wary and half-cocky. Unpredictable. I’ll admit, I tightened my grip on my baton.
I decided honesty was the best policy. Mister English struck me as a pragmatist. ‘Well, given you’ve smashed the room up and I’m worried about Mary’s safety, if you don’t put the extinguisher down I’ll probably have to hit you with this stick until you do. Sorry.’ Yes, I apologised in advance, which is possibly why British police officers used to be the envy of the world.
‘Okay, Mary can go,’ Mister English replied. ‘I don’t mind.’
I nodded at the nurses waiting by the door. They didn’t seem as nervous as I was for some reason. I suppose my brain was flooded with fight or flight chemicals. Gripping Mary’s arm, I led her away, keeping an eye on Mister English. ‘You okay?’ asked the nurse.
‘Yeah, I’m fine,’ I said. Which was a big fat lie, as I had no idea what might happen next.
‘Look, he needs medicating. Persuade him to see the doctor,’ the nurse explained. ‘He’s quite deferential to doctors.’
I raised an eyebrow. ‘Does he usually do this?’
‘Not with a fire extinguisher.’
That left the two of us in the TV room. ‘Thanks for that,’ I said to Mister English. ‘Now, why don’t you put the fire extinguisher down?’
‘I’m not sure I want to,’ he said, smiling.
I nodded at the smashed up furniture. ‘Why did you do this, mate?’ I wanted to fill the silence with words, in case I needed to close the distance between us and begin sticking him.
At this point, Mister English cackled. I didn’t mention it before, but Mister English had a strong Irish accent. He looked at his handiwork and smiled. ‘What can I say?’ he chuckled, nodding at the devastation he’d wrought. ‘English by name, English by nature.’
Then he put the fire extinguisher down.
‘Thanks,’ I said, stepping forward and grabbing the extinguisher. I rolled it away and took a step back. Mister English didn’t seem threatening. On the other hand, he didn’t look relaxed, either. ‘I think you should see a doctor. The nurse says they want to see you.’
‘They’ll want to stick needles in me.’
‘I reckon they probably do. It’s probably a good idea, though. You can’t be smashing the place up like this.’ I know, my words were hardly original. They were trite. Obvious. But policing teaches you there’s a time for oratory and a time for commonsense. This was the latter.
Mister English suddenly looked deflated. ‘I dunno,’ he said. ‘Will you come with me?’
‘If you like,’ I said. To be honest, Mister English could have asked me to perform a haka or sing the Congolese national anthem and I’d have done it. I just wanted to end the incident peacefully.
We all ended up in a booth, Mister English lying on a gurney. Me, a doctor, and the nurse I met earlier. Mister English held my hand tightly as the doctor slid an alarmingly large needle into his arm. ‘You’ll feel better very soon, Mister English,’ he said, in an authoritative, doctor-ish voice.
‘Thank you, Doctor,’ said Mister English, looking over my shoulder at the nurse. He smiled a snarky smile, then closed his eyes. Then, he was away with the fairies.
Even now, I don’t know if Mister English was playing mind games with the nurses. An act of rebellion perhaps. Like Jack Nicholson in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest? I don’t know. The staff seemed kind. There were no Nurse Ratcheds I could see at St. Charles.
Here’s what I do know; hitting people is a last resort. Especially vulnerable people. That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be prepared to do it. To be honest? I’d have set about Mister English if I there were no other choice. Maybe, in another timeline, in a parallel universe, I did. Maybe I’d have ended up in court too?
Who knows?
Nonetheless, I’ll always remember the troubled Irishman called Mister English, who was baffled and angry and snarky. He was funny too. Perhaps manipulative. But as he held my hand, wincing as the needle bit, I couldn’t help but feel for him. I was still at the point where my empathy circuits were only partially corroded.
So, farewell Mister English. I hope things worked out in the end, whatever that might have looked like for you.
I thought a story like this would make a change from analysis and opinion. Let me know what you think. Elsewhere, I’ve been writing in UnHerd on Scottish organised crime and Labour’s really bloody stupid sentencing review.
Until next time, take care.
Dom.
This article (An afternoon with Mister English) was created and published by Dominic Adler and is republished here under “Fair Use”
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