One Mile Apart: fitting the profile (opinions)

Stop and Search powers are put in place to protect society. This law give police officers the right to question and inspect any citizen for weapons, drugs, stolen property or anything that could be used in a crime. But how do they deduce who to stop and search? 1. If serious violence could take place, 2. If you are carrying a weapon or have carried one before, 3. You're in a specific location or area. All but the second demand a police officer to use their own judgement and determine from who could be a criminal based on their appearance and body language.

Fitting the profile: Joshua Saunders |  Photography: One Mile Away

A recurring theme I've witnessed with my own eyes has been black teenagers and adults stopped and searched by police, while white friends are allowed to walk by without being searched.

Our country's legal system abides by the foundation that a person is 'innocent until proven guilty' but under the stop and search powers, police officers, and from my experience of West Midlands Police, appear to be targeting black males more than any others race. The apparent profile appears to be a black male wearing a tracksuit, chains, or a hoodie. A profile which naturally must mean an individual who fits that description is carry either a gun or a knife, is a part of gang culture or is simply up to no good.

In Channel 4 documentary Miles Apart, which was released a couple of weeks ago this issue became evidently more apparent. The programme recorded former gang members from Birmingham's Johnson Crew and Burger Bar Boys attempting to cease the warfare, which until recently was still ongoing between the two rival groups, as it has been for the past few of decades.

Throughout the course of the film, West Midlands Police pursued host Dylan Duffus and filmmaker Penny Woolcock. The team filmed during the Birmingham Riots of 2011, and also recorded every interaction the pair had with the police, who demanded their tapes several times and even searched Woolcock's house. Fortunately she had hidden them elsewhere in a friend's China cabinet, or the film may never have been made. West Midlands Police went onto threaten the pair and Channel 4 that if they did not put up a credit at the end of their documentary declaring that the police may have been portrayed in a negative then they would attempt to sue them for a second time. The first unsuccessful court case was for Woolcock's refusal to hand over the film rushes, which they claimed could contain evidence of criminal activity.

In the documentary the police were shown in a negative way, not through editing but via the raw footage depicting police officers searching black males for nothing more than a stereotyped and prejudicial fear that assumes that any black individual fitting the profile could be a danger to society. This unfair presumption widens the gap between police and the society they serve, and in future, instead of trying ban a film which accurately represented action of some officers from West Midlands Police force, they should be accountable, learn from it and change.

Opinion: The day the ad man stole your best friend

One dog dominating the family's TV viewing, 'Yes we will watch Beethoven again' | Taro the Shiba Inu

(Featured in The Bournemouth Rock - March 2nd)

“When a man’s best friend is his dog, that dog has a problem,” American author Edward Abbey once said. 

The unbreakable bond between man and canine companion at one point was utterly undeniable it stretched throughout life, literature and even videos. 

Consider all of the things that wouldn’t have happened had it not have been for one man and dog...  

Would the world have been as humorous a place without the Youtube sensation ‘Ultimate Dog Tease’ or Bizzle the dog-man's insatiable appetite for DairyLea Dunkers? Could Chance have found his way Homeward Bound if not for the love of owner Jamie? Or even hopeless ‘meddling kids’ Shaggy and Scooby, would they have caught countless criminals if one of them was absent? 

And what about that meadow, would it have been mowed if not for the eponymous one man and his dog*? 

Answer: I think not.  *Google it, for the love of outdated references! 

Soon this unspoken agreement between man and his four-legged friend may truly be over… 

And all thanks to ITV broadcasting the UK’s first-ever commercial aimed to pester your pooch.  

The adverts in question uses sounds and noises set to the frequency of 16,000hertz that are only audible dogs and a miniscule handful of humans. Scientists testing the advert for pet-food company Purina found that dogs: “pricked up their ears and paid attention to the product being advertised.”  

Which then presumably gives the illusion that the dog favours a certain brand and ‘wants’ that dog treat, snack or toy - sending it’s uneducated owner into a spending frenzy. 

This first of its kind ad was shown during the 7.15pm advert break of Emmerdale on Feb 13. Produced by dog food makers Bakers Complete it spoofed the Great Escape, showings dogs hijacked a van full of treats and ending up suspended over a cliff with the snacks on one side and the dogs on the other. 

On YouTube one man filmed his dog’s response to the advert. His Yorkshire terrier reacted by barking at the screen while happily dashing around the room, before getting a toy without any command.  

This for someone unaware of this terrier tempting advert, would think that their pet was trying to tell them something. 

Somewhere right this second, there will be a person out in a supermarket stocking up on the food they believe their pet is in awe of.  

Don't let the ad-man steal your adorable animal | Jordon Cooper

And if advertisers have this power to communicate with our pets through sound what else could they make them do? Poop on the carpet, piddle in your tea, run away from your loving home? Howls of horror! The possibilities are worrying and endless. 

Leading us to a world dominated by ad-men and women who would steal your Labrador’s litters and convinces your mad mutt to abandon you, all for a quick sale. This grim reality faces all pet owners – it may have started as just barking for the moment but in the blink of an eye you’ll be pet less and without any way of preventing it…  

Well that or you could just never turn your television off mute…

Feature: LIVING LIFE THROUGH THE EYES OF A YES MAN

Imagine a world where you can never say no. Joshua Saunders survives Scientology, befriends Big Issue sellers and overhears what only countless years of counselling will undo, as he spends seven days in the life of a YES MAN.

Awkwardly I perch in a room constructed deliberately to put people at ease. The woman I’ve met for merely five-minutes leans closer on her adjacent seat. Card-reader in hand she beckons me to act, having unravelled the delicacies of life moments earlier. My choices are limited and crippled by my decision to ban myself from saying no; the two letters I long for more than ever. I vulnerably sit, stalling frantically, attempting to find a way out of this terminal situation… 


Back in 2006, a brave BBC radio producer called Danny Wallace, embarked on a new way of life; the way of yes. Dumped by his long-term girlfriend of the time Danny found himself turning into a recluse and rarely leaving his solitary adequate abode. Every opportunity to socialize he would reject in favour of stopping in and watching television alone. His out-of-work life slowly slipped into non-existence. Until one day, when he met an omniscient elderly man on a bus who imparted him with three wise yet simple words, ‘Say yes more.’  Epiphany struck dear Danny and he took up the challenge of living six months prohibited from saying no.

He recorded his experience in the book Yes Man. And 416 pages later, Danny’s metamorphosis had led him to winning £25,000 only to lose it seconds later; a TV spin-off exploring different lifestyles one where he infamously agitated a monk; and, a film adaptation of his tales starring Jim Carrey and Zooey Deschanel. It would be fair to say the happiness, and bank balance, of Danny Wallace’s skyrocketed up, up and away in an explosion of array of colours and unequivocal contentment. 



Now I’m not saying my journey as a Yes Man will follow the same path, but by the end of the week if, ‘Man, Myth, Legend – the Joshua Saunders story’ hasn’t been considered by at least three major film companies I’m going to feel pretty peeved.

Inspiration : Yes Man, by Danny Wallace

The last time I said no was on a rather uneventful Friday to the request of watching a film. Even still, this mundane moment fondly sticks out in my mind as my last snippet of free will. The final decision made of my own choice for the experiment over 168 hours.



Several hours into my first day and the first obstacle appeared. A crimson-cheeked man dashed towards me, "Do you know the way to Kinson?” he asks. Unbeknownst to him he has probably stumbled across the least qualified person to ask for navigation tips. Since 2012 began I’ve managed to lose myself travelling between Bournemouth and Winton four times. I did not know the way to Kinson. And I genuinely did want to tell him this. ‘Yes. Just head to the highstreet and turn left,’ I replied. Off he continued to dash unaware of sad truth that he would not find himself in Kinson. With every step further away slight increasing twangs of guilt pricked me, but that was the curse of being a Yes Man. The once remorseless honesty I’d developed as a child eroded a little with every lie I was forced to tell. Telling the truth became an ever more troublesome task in this new lifestyle, especially for knowing that on every street lamppost there would be a poster posing the question, ‘Have you seen my missing cat?’  Selective sight is invaluable gift.

As a Yes Man, you have to be careful of whom you entrust your secret to. If a Yes Man ignorantly imparts his secret to a careless or cunning confidant it could end disastrously. For me, only allowing two people to know was difficult enough, you can imagine the ways people could take advantage. The question, ‘Fancy getting the next round in’ was a saying all too frequently heard by my withered wallet. A life of yes was undoubtedly a life of excess.

Life was starting to become tainted due to having yes as my only answer. Including a rather traumatic tale of trying to sleep in the same room while a friend entertained what would soon be a conquest, while I uncomfortable spent the night smothering my face into a pillow. “Do you want to stop in my room?” he half-mockingly jested. Those words still haunt me now. Sadly, I am not able to name this charismatic chap for legal, ethical and moral reasons. But I would like him to know two things: Yes I heard everything, and yes, my psychiatrist has invoiced you the bills.

Half way through the week and with a room inundated with flyers, leaflets and advertisement business cards, my inability to say no had taken over my life. The average time it took walking anywhere multiplied by three, thanks to every ‘5-minute street survey’. Like vultures they hover waiting to descend in their masses and for the unsuspecting tourist or person deprived of their right to decline, they got lucky.

“Consider your life of yes like karma,” a confidant advised. By complying with the rules whatever yes through before me. I kept hold of the deep-rooted hope that something good would be thrust into my path or I’d be spared of an off-putting challenging in the long-term. And in some ways this did happen, by saying yes more I was more productive. Every night there was something planned and agreed to, rather than the spontaneous last minute arrangements. Things I had always intended on doing such as getting a magazine subscription, finding a new hobby, learning a new language all became a possibility now that I had no more excuses. 

But turbulent times lay round the corner, a threat that would put the very challenge I’d faithfully adhered to at risk.
 

Bournemouth town center was breezier than usual; little did I know that the hidden chill would shock me to my very bone. I hastily strolled through the streets with an ever-open eye looking for things to say yes to. In a state of quiet bemusement due to the fact that I’d bought three editions of the same Big Issue from an eloquently voiced seller named Paul, much to his understandable confusion.

“Four questions, it will only take a few minutes,” pleaded a pixie haired woman. Describing herself as a nurse, she smiled invitingly at me asking me how I wish I could improve about my life and what I dreamed of. Struggling to think, I fabricated a story about a deserted island with friends to this stranger named Sue with a ruby streak in her greying-dark hair.

Sue’s spectacles seared into my soul as she probed deeper into my childhood and life, focusing on the sadder aspects of my moderately happy life. “Follow me just over here,” she said, as I asked what the survey was for. Leading across the cobbled streets of Bournemouth she walked into a building and up a steep staircase decked in white. Hesitating, I pause, wondering whether it’s such a good idea to follow her up. But a yes was a yes, and maybe suspicion, negativity and doubt of mankind was the remaining fragments of my personality preventing me from a full allegiance with a positive change to becoming an open, trusting and convivial Yes Man. How misguided I was.

Encouraging me to take a seat in the plain room, she carried on probing further about my life. Behind her stood a large bookshelf with atleast 300 copies of a mysterious looking piece literature. Vibrant reds contrasted with rustic browns give an unsettling feel to the place as she reveals her sole intent for bringing me upstairs, “Have you heard of Dianetics?”

The name felt familiar but I could not think why. She carried on, delicately sliding a book off the never-diminishing pile in the same way a person patiently plucks a Jenga brick from an overly stacked tower. But the pillar was soon to collapse. Peeling to pages about self-help and happiness, she advises different sections. As well as their complementary personality test and informative DVD.

Another person enters the room, trailing shortly behind her is a fragile timid looking woman. Resting beside us, the leader utters similar words of interest that I personally heard from her colleague but a few moments ago.  

Meanwhile, Sue flicks to the front and mentions celebrities who have endorsed the book, including John Travolta. It clicked. I knew where I’d heard the name Dio-bloody-netics before, and just knowing that meant I could be in danger.

Beside me I could witness as an outsider what the supposedly kind, caring and all-listening woman was doing.

Scientology. They were Scientologists. And she was trying to recruit both of us to follow their belief. A religion that is described on Scientology.org as, “A religion that offers a precise path leading to a complete and certain understanding of one’s true spiritual nature and one’s relationship to self, family, groups, Mankind, all life forms, the material universe, the spiritual universe and the Supreme Being.”

Exploring deeper into the background of the lady next to me, she exposed vulnerable parts of her life and questioned each bit. Listening intently and targeting her exposed moments of pain like she had with mine. Feeding on her insecurities and promising her a brighter future ahead with subtle placebos, marathons away from her previous down-spiral.

“Now that will just be £16 sweetie, would you prefer card or cash?” Sue0 insisted looking away to grab her card-reader.

Later on that day and with the final few hours of my time as a Yes Man quickly ticking away I decided it was time to reveal myself to the world. Note: not in a nudist way like last edition. But for a Mr Men and Little Miss themed birthday party. So dressed as that unforgettable Mr Men character Mr Yes, I set off for the night with a t-shirt boasting my lifestyle, designed by my flatmate who was surprised for me to accept the offer for her to paint it. Many, countless rounds of drinks later and several narrowly avoided dares we were in a nightclub.

The penultimate moments of my time vanished down to a final 60seconds, a last bid was made to exploit my life as a Yes Man by a friend shouting, 'Josh, take your clothes off...

'

Amidst trying to waste time by slowly stripping off my jacket I thought back over my odyssey, the friends I'd made Paul the Big Issue seller, volunteering to take part in film, countless flyers and the positives of the experience. Saying yes more had stopped me from hiding from the world, I’d abandoned avoiding the eyes of friendly faces for the worry that they would just see me as another number to fill their quota. By living in the way of no I'd deprived my eyes, thoughts and self of the outer beauty in the world in favour of opting to avoid glancing at anyone or anything. Imagine all the possibilities you miss out on every day by ignorantly saying no, not even aware of what a person has to say, offer or maybe even sell. By saying yes even fractionally more my life dramatically changed and as a result the world was less of a mystery. 


But remembering a little more recently I cast my mind to the Scientologist I'd met earlier that day. "So that's just £16," she reiterated. I looked at the woman beside me and understood the fear and trauma the religion was trying to take advantage of. She was everything Yes stood against, it abuse and manipulation, where Yes granted freedom and liberty. Scientology was available to those who were willing to put their hand in the pocket and bring out naivety and endless supplies of money to purchase the ‘the next step closer to happiness'. Without hesitation I stood up and I uttered the two letters I had at times longed to utter for the whole week.

Catherine Willey, Rachel Trevaskiss, Lauren Potter receive a little help from Yes Man | Ellis Wall

After revealing this I can only hope you aren't too disappointed, some of you may even think, "It was only money you tight sod, you could have made the whole week as a Yes Man if you'd only paid up!" But by accepting and giving in to the demands of the Scientologist the week of being a Yes Man would have been in vain.

My antiquated watch bleeped, a new day dawned in Bournemouth and my life was the Yes Man was over. 



Seven days, no more No's, only yeses. I dare you. Send us your experiences as a Yes Man to JoshuaDavidSaunders@live.co.uk.

Opinion: Frankie Cocozza saint or sinner?

To be published in the Bournemouth Rock Feb 16. 
(Frankie Cocozza: anti-christ or all things nice?)

Frankie Cocozza – the name that will either leave your heart aflutter or fill your fists with fury.  

Please note: if you’re the latter you’re probably not going to enjoy this piece too much. 

I pose it to you that specimen F, mister Cocozza, is not anywhere near as bad as you are led to believe.  

First of all, women surely you should know better. There is no illusion whatsoever that our lady-loving lothario has any intentions of settling down and making an honest woman of you at all. Any sexual relations with him are simply that and little more than another tattoo on his bum. Frankly, let’s face it if you’re sat expectantly waiting for him to call you the next morning, you may want to bring snacks. Those delusional dozen who think otherwise are what a good friend of mine would describe as ‘oxygen thieves’. 

Well how about the cocaine ey, Frankie coke-up-the-nose-a? I hear you say. Guilty, while it’s not the best excuse, we’ve all made mistakes. I mean mine personally don’t include Class-A drugs on an every day basis, but surely being booted off the X-Factor and ruining an already tarnished music career is punishment enough!  

What about his dreadful music? Okay now, no need to get nasty. I’ll admit his cover of ‘I’ve got a feeling’ was torturous to listen too. Apparently scientists are in the process of implementing it as a replacement to the dog whistle next year. But in a world where Justin Bieber, Rebecca Black and Vanilla Ice can all be played on the radio a wannabe 19-year-old singer from Brighton is the least of our worries. 

To conclude, since being booted off X-factor and sadly ending as the runner-up in Celebrity Big Brother, I can hardly say he has been a reformed character or that he left his sordid stunts behind him. But at a time when dark clouds overhang our ‘broken society’ I cannot begrudge the lad a bit of ‘living like a rock-star’ fun.

Interview: Meet Bournemouths nudist swimmers

Due to appear in the Bournemouth Rock Feb 16.

There I stand, nude or very-nearly nude. There before a poolside littered with de-clothed men and women. Just a pair of colourful, dinosaur-print boxers separating me from the world of naturism. Quaking, my quickening heartbeat questions my courage. Can I really do this? Throw all inhibitions aside, take the leap of faith and drop my draws? Joshua Saunders tries not to balls-up his infiltration of Bournemouth’s hidden world of naturism.  

Now I’d never consider myself to be the overly exhibitionist type; excluding the natural, naked-dash from the bathroom gone wrong resulting in mooning my brother’s girlfriend. A causal clothes-less sprint around a bar, and a mankini malfunction similar to Simon, from the Inbetweeners, that led him to catwalk calamity. Okay, so it’s fair to say I’m not a complete stranger to bearing all but never with swimming, and never with real-life naturists.  

Unknown to many, Bournemouth isn’t as estranged from naturism as you’d imagine. The area boasts Studland nude beach, one of the most popular sites in the UK and just under ten miles away. But to your average person, in my case my housemates the idea of baring all in front a group of strangers was hilarious enough to send them into a frenzy of laughter, giggles and leaving one unable to look at me seriously for several minutes.  

But what is the fear surrounding the act of living uncovered? I mean you never heard Adam and Eve blushing or making immature penis jokes. Technically speaking, being stripped of clothes should be one of the most natural things of all – we are after all human and so could hazard a reasonable guess as to what lies beneath the average pair of trousers and top.  But more often than not, naturism suffers the stigmatic stereotype of being a guise for dirty old perverts or randy teenagers eager for a gaze upon naked-flesh. 

A blanket of nerves smothers me as I leave the taxi that has delivered me just outside the location for our swim. The biting chill of the winter’s evening hits my face as I approach the hidden hotel, the Rothesay in Highcliffe. Its warm, rustic apparel seems an unusual setting for a nudists’ meet. Although for now it’s a relief to remember we aren’t nakedly dipping into the sea!  

Upon entree I’m greeted by dressed David (who wished for his surname to remain anonymous)  organiser of the Nude Swim events. He extends his hand and shakes firmly, reawakening the ever-worrying reality that soon I will be naked in front of many, many strangers. Friendly and surprisingly young, 23, he tells me that his initial motivation to set up the group was to increase the amount of activities for like-minded people. “I want to have another option of what I can do as a naturist and make new friends in the process.” Having been a naturist for nearly five-years his appreciation of the lifestyle comes from the 'isolation' and 'the escape from everyday stresses in modern life and smart phones'. 

I am the last over just over 15 people attending tonight and was hastily directed to the private pool section. As I leave I overhear the receptionist say that there are not that many guests stopping, and furthermore those who are, have been made aware and placed in rooms that would prevent them from seeing.  

The door is shut behind me and now it’s the moment that matters, the swan song of the show. Baby blue walls tiled with seahorses and fish greet me, along with several long panel shaped windows, one of which is covered with what looks like a seasoned artist’s dust cover. Stripped down to just underwear, my level of comfort is shown by my frozen inability to take them off. Last minute doubts plague my mind, and uncharacteristically I begin to tremor.  Can I do this? 

“Just do it,” calls an undressed David from the pool. And casting aside all hesitation I thrust down last layer of clothing. Embarrassment was my initial feeling. Wondering why the heck I’d shed off my clothes in front of complete strangers! Again!  

Briskly I scramble towards the pool, trying to divert as little attention towards me, and more importantly my naked body, as possible. Lowering into the pool of bodies floating around, conversing, laughing, they are unfazed by the undeniable fact that they are all naked. ‘Try swimming’ one man encourages, not knowing what to do I oblige. As the water ripples beside me an unusually weird feeling of liberation and elation sweeps through as me and my little big friend brave the waves. And in that moment of novel bliss I understood the calling to swim naked.  

As the session carries on more and more people form a semi-circle in the water, all sharing experiences from their out of the ‘ordinary’ lifestyle. One person tells of him forgetfully opening the door in the nude to a plumber. And after an embarrassing scurry up the stairs, to gather clothes he later noticed the man was a secret naturist too and was fixing nakedly. Another jokes to his unknowing neighbours that he sunbathes in the nude, little do they know he actually does!  

While the night slowly draws closer to an end the issue of being without clothing seems less prominent. The once glaringly obvious shame of being bare disapparates (sic) and the community I’ve thrust myself into feels more like a close-knit family. A gathering of people who like to be naked and just take pleasure from returning back to our natural form. No sordid antics or salacious sauna scenes just a bunch of friends like any other. 

The realisation of my actions only hit recently, ironically as I bathed in the shower. I have paddled around naked for the whole room of eyes to see. Carelessly chatted whilst drifting on the water bare, albeit with doubts and primarily fear, but in an uttermost moment of spontaneity the comfort of nudity embraced me. Freedom.  

While I can’t guarantee for now that I’ll be convert to life without the constraints of clothing (only for the sake of the public), I certainly wouldn’t rule out more nude swimming in the future. Perhaps I’ll see you there...  

To find more information about Bournemouth’s Nude Swim events visit www.nudeswim.wordpress.com or email contact@nudeswim.co.uk