NAIVELY, I didn’t think it would happen to me.
But it did.
Getty – ContributorTwo weeks ago, Clemmie was mugged by a knife-wielding, mask-wearing man on a moped[/caption]
GettyAccording to the Financial Times, one in three Brits have now had their phones stolen[/caption]
Two weeks ago I became yet another grim statistic — mugged by a knife-wielding, mask-wearing man on a moped.
In the blink of an eye, I lost my life support — my phone, my bank cards, my contacts, my sanity.
Finally, here was Broken Britain in all its technicolour glory.
But it could have been worse . . . so much worse.
The little s**t didn’t actually use his knife; he simply drove up behind me in the middle of a quiet Mayfair street, and snatched my iPhone 15.
To re-cap, it was 3.30am, I was leaving a club, and trying to book an Uber.
Out of nowhere, he swooped, leaving me staggering and shaken.
Within minutes, three other people — two men and a woman — came running down the street screaming; they too had been attacked. He pulled out his knife to the men. (Perhaps leaving the blade in his pocket for the women was his version of chivalry).
It was terrifying — I had no means of getting home, my friends were already safely deposited in taxis, and I had no way of contacting anyone to cancel my cards/phone/life.
Eventually, after grimly marauding the streets of central London alone for half an hour, a bloke pulled over and offered me a lift to his flat in Hammersmith.
By now desperate, and not thinking straight, foolishly I got in.
Once at his, he insisted I come in as he had a “few things to do”, but he promised, he’d take me all the way home — about three miles away — immediately after.
Instead he locked me in his flat, opened a bottle of champagne, and tried to make me “party” with him. It was horrific.
When his back was turned, I fled.
And, with the sun coming up, started the miserable trudge home. I eventually got in at around 9am, sweating profusely, and used a neighbour’s phone to begin the soul-destroying process of cancelling everything, and filing a police report.
Obviously the police did absolutely nothing and I got an email back a few days later.
Not known, clear with picture deskClemmie Moodie’s phone has since turned up in Shenzhen, China – likely to be broken down into precious metals[/caption]
“We are sorry to hear that you have been a victim of crime,” it began.
“An investigator from the Metropolitan Police has looked carefully at your case and we are sorry to say with the evidence and leads available, it is unlikely we will be able to identify those responsible. At present, and pending further viable information coming to light, the case has been closed.”
Two days ago, I got an alert from Apple’s Find My Phone saying the handset had turned up in Shenzhen, China.
This, it turns out, is the phone-theft capital of the world where phones are broken down into precious metals — a single smartphone can contain 0.034g of gold, 0.34g of silver, 0.015g of palladium, and a sliver of platinum — or, more likely, flogged on the black market for around £250 a pop. I’d paid £1,250 for my phone seven months previously.
Of all the epidemics this country is facing — obesity, migrancy, shoplifting, unemployment — this is surely one of the grimmest. Two thousand phones are reported stolen EVERY DAY in London.
These low-life criminal gangs are making £50million a year in London alone. Hey, who needs a 9-5 when this is a viable alternative?
According to the Financial Times, one in three Brits have now had their phones stolen.
Luckily, my phone was on power-saving mode, meaning it would have shut down 30 seconds after he nicked it. He couldn’t, therefore, gain access without my PIN code or facial ID, and ransack my bank accounts.
Heads in the sand
Nor could he exploit my phone book — which, by virtue of my job has countless celebrity and politician contacts — or raid my photo album for potential blackmail purposes. (TBF he’d not have had much joy there — my camera roll is largely filled with photos of my dog.)
Unlike a friend of mine who was blackmailed over explicit photos taken with her boyfriend, and another mate who had £25,000 stolen over the course of four hours.
These are dark, dark times.
Sadiq Khan, a man who’d rather be red carpet-photographed a**e-kissing a Hollywood star than crime-fighting, and Keir Starmer, a man who is doing nothing, are busy burying their heads in the sand.
Labour MP Dawn Butler, to her credit, is at least trying.
Ms Butler, who recently announced she would stand for London mayor if Sadiq tired of red carpets, is seeking an amendment to the Crime and Policing Bill which would require mobile phone companies to block stolen phones within 48 hours of a police report.
She, quite rightly, believes tech companies have greater responsibility in helping victims protect themselves.
I never thought I’d be scared to walk around my home town. I am now.
Britain really is utterly broken – and never have I been less proud to be British.
MEANS TO END
TWO days after getting mugged, I got a parking ticket.
In a most excellent 48 hours, you can imagine my delight in discovering a little yellow notice on my Mini, the back tyres of which were approximately three millimetres over the white line.
In desperation, I appealed to Richmond Council.
With little emotional energy left to spend, when asked for the reason for my appeal, I wrote: “It seems a little bit mean.”
Miraculously, I have heard nothing since – perhaps there is some hope for humanity after all.
(Although, TBC.)
Posh old folks’ home? Only in the movies…
APThursday Murder Club stars Helen Mirren and Pierce Brosnan[/caption]
THE Thursday Murder Club, is a lovely, feel-good adaptation of Richard Osman’s best-selling tome.
Starring the irrepressible Helen Mirren, 80, Ben Kingsley, 81, Pierce Brosnan, 72, and wonderful Celia Imrie, 73, who, incidentally, went to my old school (different years), it is set in a fictional old people’s home.
Fictional because the home is a joy to behold, with happy, compos mentis residents who have access to gym classes, a yoga studio, fine dining restaurants and glorious grounds.
If only old people in this country really could live like this.
‘LADY’ NEVER LOVELY
IT is now “harassment” to call a lady “lovely”.
An easyJet cabin crew manager was fired after calling his female co-workers “lovely ladies” and “darlings”, something he claimed was merely “flirty banter”.
Whilst I am massively against ludicrous PC culture, the tribunal was absolutely correct in rejecting his appeal.
As any female over 40 knows, there is NOTHING worse than being called a “lady”.
“Woman”, fine. “Girl”, ideal. “Lady”, hideous.
I still remember my late 90-year-old granny’s uncontainable fury at being referred to as a “young lady” by some facetious whippersnapper waiter.
Men: Just don’t.
CEO WE LOVE TO HAT-E
X/@TelAviv2025Polish magnate Piotr Szczerek said he made “a huge mistake” when he swiped the hat from the youngster’s grasp[/caption]
IT’S not been a vintage summer for CEOs.
First we had Randy Andy – Astronomer boss Andy Byron, whose extra-marital dalliance with a company employee was caught on Coldplay’s kiss-cam – and now we have the Polish Hat Snatcher.
Piotr Szczerek, the fully grown man (and boss of a paving firm called Drogbruk) who seized a baseball cap signed by tennis player Kamil Majchrzak from the clutches of a young boy – all caught on camera – has been named and shamed.
If this jerk – currently billed as the world’s most hated man, which in the era of Putin seems a tad extreme – can act like this in public, just imagine what he’s like in private.
FELINE FUHRER
HOSTAGE is another Netflix hit, starring Suranne Jones, inset, as British PM (preferable to Sir Keir).
While I was gripped by the cheesy, incredibly formulaic series, the ending was somewhat ruined by the distracting presence of a cat that looked remarkably like, well, Hitler.
See for yourselves.
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