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A generation of thugs being bred

PUBLISHED: 10:15 11 September 2009 | UPDATED: 12:01 06 July 2010

CHILDREN are having children. Teenagers left to drag themselves by neglectful, drunken, druggie parents, never taught right from wrong, are having their own children, breeding a whole new generation of feral illiterate thugs who roam the streets wreaking havoc, terror and violence.

CHILDREN are having children. Teenagers left to drag themselves by neglectful, drunken, druggie parents, never taught right from wrong, are having their own children, breeding a whole new generation of feral illiterate thugs who roam the streets wreaking havoc, terror and violence.

It could be the plot of a horror movie or a sci-fi scary. But it's happening on an estate near you and more than you dare think.

Working families struggling through the credit crunch are having fewer children because they can't afford them while the rest are readily reproducing for lives on benefits. Why shouldn't they when the money is there?

And this will happen more and more unless radical steps are taken to save these children - and put women off getting pregnant.

It is all about rescue and making them safe - and saving communities from being ruled by savagery at our expense.

Babies in families beyond - and who don't want help - should be adopted and benefits for increasing children stopped.

The horrors two little boys inflicted on two other little boys in the village of Edlington proves this is the only way, as distasteful as it is. And distasteful it is, but not nearly as distasteful as their reality.

Left to roam like strays, drugged by their drunken mother to keep them asleep, beaten by her boyfriends, never talked to, cared for, excluded from school and left to fend for themselves.

And this was under the eye of Social Services.

Even when people complained about the boys' behaviour, their mother shrugged and denied they had anything to do with her - except when she was claiming her benefits.

Despite the help and involvement of every social and family service, and a sky-high bill trying to fix their broken, hopeless family and “educate” their mother to care for them, those boys were still little better than wild animals.

If they hadn't been put under lock and key, those boys would have gone on to father - and I use that word purely in the biological sense - child after child breeding yet more little savages.

Families like this are multiplying. So much so that the head of Barnado's this week caused much liberal sharp intake of breath by stating what no one has dared say. More babies have to be taken into care to stop terrible parents turning them into monsters.

Some families can never be fixed, however much help, support and money is invested in keeping them together. Some women should never have children.

A friend was telling me the other day about girls her daughter knows. One is just 15 and having her second child. Brought up in a turbulent home by her mother and several of her partners, the girl can barely look after herself, let alone a baby. Predictably the babies are by different fathers who don't want to know.

Another girl is 17 and recently gave birth to a boy. Her mother was released from prison shortly before the birth but was electronically tagged. Her first grandchild's birth fell within her curfew so she couldn't be by her daughter's side, even if she had wanted to be.

The baby's father refuses to acknowledge the baby is his and has never bothered to see his son. His mother also denies any responsibility.

We've seen the future for children like this and it's horrific.

And for every child born into this moral poverty, there is a childless couple desperate to adopt. Couples able to give love, care and a solid moral upbringing.

A line has to be drawn somewhere, not in the name of dictatorship or social engineering but for the safety of children - and the safety of people living around them.

GIVE us a break.

Women can't even enjoy a glass of wine now - something our French sisters take as a given from childhood - because experts say we're drinking too much.

Not nearly enough, I say, if we have to listen to any more of these experts.

I'm sick of being told what I can and can't do. A glass of wine with an evening meal doesn't make a woman an alcoholic.

All this nagging about the few pleasures in life is enough to turn anyone to drink.

Women in our 40s might be drinking more than our mothers. So what? We do a lot of other things more than our mothers did too - pamper ourselves, enjoy better health, do more vacuuming - but no one warns us that will kill us too.

A glass or two of Merlot at the end of the day is hardly binge drinking. And whose blinking business is it anyway?

Cheers. Chin, chin.

THE beige pullovers have spent the week palpitating over their All-Bran.

The BBC has really gone done it now. The final straw.

Their beloved Terry Wogan replaced by Chris Evans at breakfast time is outrageous. The old codger making way for the puerile.

You could almost hear the slipper stomp across the lino by the TOG brigade rallying the over 50s.

Radio 2 may well have made a leap too far. Evans isn't my cup of tea at breakfast

But imagining the indignant rage of dreary Wogan fans made my day.

THE mother of murdered nine-year-old Stacey Lawrence said her boyfriend - the man who strangled her daughter - was not the man she thought he was.

He was a murderer with a violent past who might have sexually assaulted her daughter and girls before, so one would hope he wasn't.

Hardly great stepfather material.

But the reaction of Roxanne Lawrence to losing her precious daughter at the hands of her man she loved has been distressing. She said she was “finding it hard to be angry with him.” He murdered her child. He had been her knight in shining armour.

She had been so in love, so happy.

Like too many women, it was all about her, her happiness, and her relationship.

It left more than a bad taste.

Women like Miss Lawrence desperately crave a relationship and need their latest boyfriend to be the “good father” to their children. They let men into their home believing they can become an instant father. But they're not their dads.

These women put their happiness first before the interests of the children, however loudly they might protest they do.

Poor Stacey's murder shows just how easily women can be duped. No one can ever really be sure.

A SCOUT without a knife is like a car without wheels - pointless.

Scouts have to be prepared and how can anyone be prepared without a penknife?

Most of the fun of scouting is camping, survival and being allowed to do the sort of boy - and girl - stuff normal life doesn't allow. Like using a penknife for wood, carving survival tools and preparing food.

It's a tool, not a weapon.

But penknives are now being banned from scout camps because of the national rise in stabbings.

Not that anyone has ever been stabbed at a scout camp.

Isn't one of the points of scouting to offer boys and girls adventure rather than roaming the streets looking for trouble or staring at games consoles all day?

They'll ban tents next in fear of scouts getting their necks tangled in the ropes and camp fires because of the danger of burns.

I know, let's keep all our children indoors away from anything that has the capability of harming them.

IMAGINE the kerfuffle among mothers at the posh school gate when they hear Kerry Katona might be joining their ranks.

There was an almighty uproar, apparently, when word got out that drugs shame Kerry wanted to send her children to a private school in genteel Wilmslow, Cheshire.

You have to laugh. Years ago, the wealthy would send their children to private schools to keep them away from the common hoi polloi.

Now, since the advent of the nouveau riche, lottery winners and celebrities, their money is as good as anyone else's as, of course, are their children. Private schools are now full of children of people old money would prefer to avoid.

Exclusive merely means who can afford it. The number of private plated cars outside schools says it all.

The mothers at Kerry's school have talked the headteacher round to banning Katona's children - and poor Kerry can't even use a bribe of a discount from Iceland now to win them round.

IT'S like a plot from Midsomer Murders.

Wealthy writer and national newspaper columnist swans into remote countryside to buy a sprawling estate bringing all her fancy London ways with her.

She writes a book accusing all the eligible men of being toothless and local shelf stackers having learning difficulties.

She flounces in to her local shop to buy her £20-plus bottles of wine, openly admits to feeding her chickens organic linguine from Carluccios and wonders why she hasn't made friends.

Then, she's terrified out of her wits, by shotgun pellets in her metal mailbox.

I'm surprised it took them so long. In East Anglia Liz Jones would have been run out of the village long ago. Perhaps they're more forgiving in Exmoor.

She bleated that since she moved from London no one had popped in or invited her to tea. No wonder when she writes about her fussy eating habits.

And has she invited anyone to her house? To be accepted into any rural community the incomer has to make the effort to fit in, be friendly and add to the community.

And then it takes 20 years to be considered one of us.

SONY BMG are reportedly going to pick up the tag for Simon Cowell's 50th birthday bash next month - a hefty £250,000, at least.

Another example of the super wealthy getting all the freebies.

All the money recycled amongst the rich in Britain with free gifts to people who don't need them could help so many genuinely in need and make Britain a better place.

TOO old for mini skirts? Too old for thigh boots?

No one's too old for anything today?

The other day I met wonderful women changing careers in their late 40s after unlocking confidence and talents on the one-year Access course - an adult's fast track to university.

With experience and families behind them, they were going off to start degrees in social work looking forward to new careers.

We're never too old to change our lives and please ourselves.

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