Prisoners' rights? What a potty idea

LOOKING back on it now, I was a poor child whose human rights were breached day in, day out. And apparently I should be blaming my wonderful, loveable granny in Ireland and my dear old great-aunts who lived in Drummond Street.

Yes, night after night I was forced to use a potty and slop out my own mess in the morning.

In fact, millions of people were in the same boat. But alas, we were not prisoners and therefore don’t have the opportunity to sue anyone for the terrible damage this has wrought on our psychological welfare, blighting our lives.

At least that’s the case which has been put forward by Scottish prison inmates and astonishingly accepted by our judges so that proceedings can now take place against the state (for which read the tax-paying public) under the European Convention on Human Rights.

Perhaps it’s an age thing. Those who have been brought up in the last 30 years, where every house is expected to have a fully-equipped bathroom and perhaps an en-suite as well, may find the idea of "slopping-out" humiliating and demeaning.

One prisoner even alleged having to empty his pot in the morning gave him eczema and was awarded 2450 as a result. If that’s the case, I can only say the world should be full of 50-somethings afflicted by skin disorders.

My granny lived in a traditional farmhouse where she had raised nine children. The only toilet was the orchard; out the door, across the farmyard, past the well (no running water either you see) where we could squat among the gooseberry bushes.

On a summer’s day when flies and wasps came to enjoy the falling apples, it could be a bit tricky. At the dead of night when all the oil lamps in the house had been extinguished and the nearest street light (in fact, the nearest street!) was about five miles away, a jaunt to the orchard was out of the question. So we each had a potty under the bed.

This didn’t even strike me as a novelty, let alone demeaning. And that may have been because the only other place where I spent time away from home was in my great-aunts’ Drummond Street flat, which was resplendent with antiques and always spotless owing to Great Aunt Nelly, who had been housekeeper to the Duke of Westminster. In comparison with Ireland, this was cutting-edge modernity. It had gas mantles. And, while most other flats used the communal wc on the half-landing, my posh relatives had their very own throne built into a cupboard at the end of the dark hall. It was plumbed in, flushed thunderously and there was always a string threaded with squares of cut-up Scotsman and Evening News pages hanging on the back of the door. In pre-Andrex days, newspaper was infinitely preferable to crispy Izal, even if it did leave headlines on your bottom.

During the day, the whole arrangement worked very well. But at night, when the gas lamps were out, we worked on candle power. It was considered far too dangerous to carry a candlestick round at night when you were half-asleep and wearing a highly inflammable nightgown. And so, once again, we each had a potty by the bed, concealed in a mahogany chanty cupboard but a potty nonetheless.

The day may come when the norm for everyone in the UK is a self- disinfecting bathroom complete with bidet and under-floor heating, and prisoners will be demanding these too.

In the meantime, if prisoners who have to slop out are to be compensated from the public purse, the powers that be might at least have the decency to wait until innocent taxpayers among us who routinely slopped out are dead and gone and not around to be outraged at such wimpery.

Let them be happy

THERE are a great many people who really don’t care whether Charles and Camilla marry or not. Among those who do, some of the most vocal are those who idolised Diana and were hoping the constitution would force Charles to spend the rest of his life in lonely misery rather than with the woman he loves.

Yes, it’s true she was the third person in the marriage. And no-one likes the other woman, the adulteress, the marriage wrecker. But there is one vitally important difference between Charles and other ordinary men and that is that he was never allowed a free choice of wife in the first place. No Catholics, no divorcees, no-one with a sexual past, yet he was obliged to produce an heir and a spare.

He was a victim every bit as much as Diana and now deserves happiness with Camilla who is clearly his soul-mate . . . regardless what some of his curmudgeonly, mean, embittered subjects might think.

Older and wiser way to stop road deaths

ROAD safety experts are to target teenage drivers because of their appalling driving and horrific accident statistics.

Boys aged 17 to 22 are most vulnerable. In 2003, 160 boys aged between 17 and 19 were killed or seriously injured on Scotland’s roads. One in five new motorists is involved in an accident within a year of passing their test.

Now this may be radical, but has anyone considered raising the age at which people can drive?

We are obsessed with lowering age limits - 16 for marrying and joining the Army and, if some politicians have their way soon, voting.

It should be clear to us that teenagers, full of inexperience, bravado and irresponsibility, may not be the best people behind the wheel.

Raising the driving age to 21 would save a great many more lives than compulsory road safety courses or tougher penalties for teenage recklessness.