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| (image grabs: Google Street View; public domain, fair use) The bpas [British Pregnancy Advisory Service] "clinic", Sefton Park, Liverpool |
(* Liverpolitanus start-note: this welcome and urgent contribution piece refers to the damning NHS Care Quality Commission Report, delivered one month ago, regarding the unsafe routine practices inside the bpas (British Pregnancy Advisory Service) clinic in Liverpool. We strongly urge readers to learn the shocking and hypocritical truth, completely unreported in the mainstream media, about this horror site. We provide a precis of the damning report at the foot of this piece and also trusted links to the, very contemporary, source materials and also to the valiant pro-life news sites that have, of course, been alert to the otherwise silenced-scandal that has been allowed to unfold in our area. As always, readers can trust that all of our other links are safe. We entrust this prayerful piece to the Virgin Most Powerful)
Sign-up for the "40 Days for Life" silent prayer vigil here. Local contact: Declan Carroll; 07584-575867; Declancrrll@hotmail.com
A LENTEN CONTRIBUTION
i. Prelude
Every time I pray here it seems to pour down. Something about Rorate Caeli desuper. It's never like the "brochure" on Google Street View - all sunny and leafy. Though obviously it must be sometimes. Just not when I come. Though I do wonder whether the sun ever truly shines here.
Ah, the vile purple door. Front and centre, as they say. The proud corporate colours of bpas. Wonder if they realise the penitential irony? As if! Yes, that violet door! Smudged with thousands of invisible finger prints down the years as "the born" have pushed through it.
Lent. Wet. Fasting. Cold. It's utter misery. Hard to look at that purple/violet door and not think of tabernacles around the Catholic world right now veiled (in parishes that still bother with old-fad things like liturgical colours and covers, of course) in much the same shade. Penance. The difference between the two violet doors is eternities apart and terrifying to reflect on: one being a blessed portal for the nourishment of souls hopefully onwards towards eternal life; the other a damned gateway to hell. Wonder why bpas chose purple?
A thought: but one letter separates violet from violent. Vio-Lent.
A thought: but one letter separates violet from violent. Vio-Lent.
ii. Rosary time. The Joyful Mysteries.
Gabriel arriving to herald the greatest chapter in human history. A young girl's simple fiat - the most powerful human response of all time. How different from many of the young girls' stories that this God-forsaken place has so shamelessly profited – literally – from for years.
Gabriel arriving to herald the greatest chapter in human history. A young girl's simple fiat - the most powerful human response of all time. How different from many of the young girls' stories that this God-forsaken place has so shamelessly profited – literally – from for years.
Just what is it about bpas' predilection for converting ominous looking three-storey Victorian town-houses into their despicable abortuaries? (Liverpolitanus note: it's a complex history but one that we try to shed some dark light on further below) There's a slew of these types across the country now. The same drill. Tucked in amidst leafy suburbia, almost invisible to the oblivious passer-by. Can't be coincidence. It must be corporate policy. "Backstreet abortions"! It's like standing before the Bates Motel. It's not enough to say it gives you the heebies. It's way more than that. And way, way darker. There's a reason I've done my utmost to swerve the horror "genre" for over half a century. Apart from the unhealthiness, I just ain't cut out for it. That I know. But I feel so much more and worse every time I stand in front of this looming abortoir. It's demonic. It's palpable. I don't know how it is for anyone else who stands vigil here. But I sure can sense it. I must trust that it's a grace, however dubiously experienced. Anyway, I wouldn't ever want to stand before this poisonous pile and not feel that terror, that disturbance that really disrupts my equilibrium. I can't grasp what it is that I'm feeling, sensing, unknowingly-knowing, other than that it's remorselessly foreboding. Demonic disturbance. Maybe I exaggerate. Demonic buffeting, then. But it's there, all the same. Every time I'm here.
That and the rain.
I know what I'm letting myself in for. The next 24-36hrs, long after I've left this hell-hole, will be a mental write-off. Bleak, gradually lessening but just knowing that it will rear up in odd ways.
That and the rain.
I know what I'm letting myself in for. The next 24-36hrs, long after I've left this hell-hole, will be a mental write-off. Bleak, gradually lessening but just knowing that it will rear up in odd ways.
iii. The Incarnation.
Grab the beads that bit tighter. Maybe saying these in Latin will turbo-charge the prayers a bit more. Takes me longer, though. I can't rattle, unthinkingly, like I shamefully sometimes do, through the Ave's in Latin like I can in English. Means I'll be here longer in the rain. And cold. No matter. I'll probably only be 15 mins longer. I'm here for an hour anyway. And especially good to use the Church's mother-tongue outside here. More rain. Now heavier. I'll do the three mysteries and then see what time it is and maybe start another and sit the remainder of my vigil in the relative warmth and shelter of the car. A pang of guilt.
Grab the beads that bit tighter. Maybe saying these in Latin will turbo-charge the prayers a bit more. Takes me longer, though. I can't rattle, unthinkingly, like I shamefully sometimes do, through the Ave's in Latin like I can in English. Means I'll be here longer in the rain. And cold. No matter. I'll probably only be 15 mins longer. I'm here for an hour anyway. And especially good to use the Church's mother-tongue outside here. More rain. Now heavier. I'll do the three mysteries and then see what time it is and maybe start another and sit the remainder of my vigil in the relative warmth and shelter of the car. A pang of guilt.
I've become aware of an engine running. I think since before I arrived. It's that small, white, work-van. Can't see who's in it. The windows and mirrors are steamed. More pour. My car dash said it was 6˚. Standing in this rain makes it feel much colder. Is my nose running or is it the rain? At least there's no wind. Spoke too soon! What disturbed those branches, above, to dump that extra shower of direct, heavy wet down on me? Good Lord! Lent!
A bohemian-type girl on a bike. Gayly wheeling by. Thankfully she's not "going inside". Wonder if anyone's ever cycled to have an abortion? Maybe whistling? iPod on? She was very wicker-baskety, anyway, and floaty clothed with a big wooly hat (get a helmet!). Very Greenwich Village. It should be a pleasant sight but I'm cynical. After all, I'm in the heart of one of Liverpool's two so-called boho districts. Maybe that's the bpas plan, also? Secrete these sulphorous cesspits where they'll be welcomed and cherished: slap, bang in the wretched heart of libland where the local, achingly right-on, cool-set – from the burn-a-bra wimmin and daft-lads of the 1960s and 70s now drawing their pensions but still clinging-on in their Birkenstocks to the heady revolution of their youth, to the young, hipster-beardy and luminously-haired, lentil-stewing Hillary-fawners – who will surely protect it with all their might. The crowning and emblematic glory of their luvved-up locale. Rational, man! The hallmark of their warped "civilisation". Was she one of The Guardian's Fallen Angels? My, that's quite a leap I've made. The poor girl only rode past and I've constructed a whole narrative around her! Can't avoid it. My (hyper)senses always work overtime here. Maybe she doesn't even know what this place is. She might even be pro-life! Hmmm.
iv. Sorry, Lord. Forgive me. Sorry, Mother Mary.
I should be praying. Simeon and Anna, help me to concentrate!
That work-van engine is still running. It has no livery. Whoever it is, they obviously don't care about emissions or their fuel bill! Hasn't he read Laudato si'? Perhaps, with ultimate irony, a passer-by may complain that he's harming the local environment! "Think of the animals!" they'd no doubt say (Liverpolitanus note: never let it be said that Catholics don't, rightly, care for animals!).
The whole nation has become pockmarked with little gaggles of smokers, these last 10 years, outside every public entrance since the ban became law. Makes it hard to fathom who's-who in that car park. A constant cavalcade of different smokers: singles, pairs, trios. Who are the ancillary staff on a "fag break" huddled 'neath the purple shelter right outside the violent door (not a day for smoky-ambles round the car park!)? And who are the friends, relatives or supporters of "the patients" – those who are somewhere "behind the purple door"? They all huddle. All ciggies and mobile phones. Some look over. They're quick to look away from the prayer loony standing there getting soaked. Wonder what they think? That they're in a safe place? As if! That place is anything but safe. If only they knew! As if I don't know what they think of me! Nutcase, fundie, botherer of non-existent God, sky-fairyist, Rosary-jangler, stupid defender of what amounts to nothing more than mere blobs-of-cells? Tick all the applicable. And more. There's an awful lot of smokers, though. Actually, quite a few couples. Always the way here. Couples always outnumbering singles. I never know what to make of that. They do all seem nervous, that much is clear. Apart from those two – him and her – who just don't seem to have a single care. Really, what's so hilarious, folks? Being outside here? They're obviously all waiting for whoever they know "inside". They can't be the "patients" with their other halves (aka the mothers and the fathers!). Especially not with the girls smoking like that. Not in their condition. Oh dear - my stupid, stupid logic!
I should be praying. Simeon and Anna, help me to concentrate!
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| Acknowledgement: Catholic Concern for Animals (Google Images; public domain, fair use) |
No one has arrived since I did. The only people I've seen have been those emerging for Dr Nicotine. Most are now on their second ciggy-trip. Out. Back inside. Out again. On smoking parade so far:
- that young girl in the green; kept looking over; I wondered whether she was going to confront me; anyway, she'd have only been met with, I pray, the converting power of prayerful silence; I wonder whether she or anyone outside this hell-hole is aware of just how unsafe the practices inside that putrid purple door have so recently been deemed to be and not for the first time?; she's only been out once; went back in; haven't seen her since; she'll maybe re-appear soon comforting her mate/sister/partner (you never know these days; lesbians "get pregnant" so, hey, they, too, probably have abortions if they discover foetal "abnormality" – though they'll obviously deny that the concept of "normal" exists in any other context);
- the small bearded bloke still there with the auburn-haired woman; late 30s by the looks; they're either friends of / or flatmates of / or an older sister (and her fella) of / or maybe even the mum and dad of ... "someone inside the purple door";
- those other two who just don't seem to give one, about anything; blood-boiling to see; but stay prayerful and remember Christ before His accusers; what is it with him holding a battered sports holdall the whole time; fat load of support they'll be for any distress later; "what are you upset about, girl?"
- and now this other young girl, 20ish; incredibly attractive; a Hepburn even; very nicely turned out, too; she's had to become the only brave to feverishly pace, while inhaling tar deeply, around the sodden car park; no matter how small she is, she just can't get under the purple shelter by the purple door because the ciggy-steps are so crowded; no room at the inn, hey?; heavens – make that hell – the hallway-vestibule of that place must truly stink!; quite fitting; she's talking agitatedly on her phone.
Hepburn is dominating the view. Pacing left to right and back again, across the front. I can hear the noise of her conversation. But that work-van engine, still whirring, is drowning all clarity. Just turn it off, matey! What she's saying is indistinguishable. Now she's in earshot. "Yeah, I've got money on me!" Hmm, she really barked that. She's not happy. Not a Liverpool accent, that. East Lancashire, I think. The bpas-Merseyside hinterland is considerable, mind. And oh yeah, we're just two miles from Liverpool - sorry John Lennon - Airport, and this has become the "destination of choice" – tch! – for Irish girls and women, north and south. The so-called "abortion corridor" from Ireland to Liverpool. Ireland, now the "gay marriage" capital of the world. Dear Lord! St Patrick pray for us!
So, she has "money" for what? I doubt it would be for THAT. Would it? I suppose it could. But no, she surely wouldn't be out here, in the rain all this while, especially smoking and smoking – stupid me again! remember, normal rules don't apply! – if she was wanting to...abort...her child. Would she? She looks too nice. But let's face it, she is after all pacing feverishly around outside an abortion centre. Dunno why but I reckon her saying that she's "got money" just doesn't sound like she means the £545 she'd need if it is "for her", and it's "for THAT", if she's still "under 10 weeks". If she is pregnant, and I just can't tell, she can't be far along. She's very slight. In fact, she may even be "under 14 weeks". But that would be £705! (Liverpolitanus note: this is a link to bpas' abortion and contraception fees - including 'special prices' for Irish women; as distressing as it is to read the very words enclosed, we would recommend that all readers have the strength to read and reflect on them). People just don't carry cash like that around. Then again, everything's plastic these days. Naive again! But no, she didn't say she's got "the money" on her. She just said she's got "money". No, it's not for her. I'm confident. She's only accompanied someone. Maybe I'm in denial. Maybe just hoping. I might still be right, though. I mean, she could just be referring to "money" for a taxi – and by the sounds of her accent she and her unseen friend "inside the purple door" might have a fair few miles to travel home. Maybe she's been let down by a third party for a lift home. Yes, that's why she's angry. Then again, she could be waiting to go inside to choose from bpas' fully-stocked a-la carte contraceptive menu - anything from £10 to £150. I suppose that's the type of pocket cash that someone might have. But surely she wouldn't be so indiscreet about that in a phone call? Would she? Unless she's being forced into having to be "fitted with something"? Fitted-up?
So, she has "money" for what? I doubt it would be for THAT. Would it? I suppose it could. But no, she surely wouldn't be out here, in the rain all this while, especially smoking and smoking – stupid me again! remember, normal rules don't apply! – if she was wanting to...abort...her child. Would she? She looks too nice. But let's face it, she is after all pacing feverishly around outside an abortion centre. Dunno why but I reckon her saying that she's "got money" just doesn't sound like she means the £545 she'd need if it is "for her", and it's "for THAT", if she's still "under 10 weeks". If she is pregnant, and I just can't tell, she can't be far along. She's very slight. In fact, she may even be "under 14 weeks". But that would be £705! (Liverpolitanus note: this is a link to bpas' abortion and contraception fees - including 'special prices' for Irish women; as distressing as it is to read the very words enclosed, we would recommend that all readers have the strength to read and reflect on them). People just don't carry cash like that around. Then again, everything's plastic these days. Naive again! But no, she didn't say she's got "the money" on her. She just said she's got "money". No, it's not for her. I'm confident. She's only accompanied someone. Maybe I'm in denial. Maybe just hoping. I might still be right, though. I mean, she could just be referring to "money" for a taxi – and by the sounds of her accent she and her unseen friend "inside the purple door" might have a fair few miles to travel home. Maybe she's been let down by a third party for a lift home. Yes, that's why she's angry. Then again, she could be waiting to go inside to choose from bpas' fully-stocked a-la carte contraceptive menu - anything from £10 to £150. I suppose that's the type of pocket cash that someone might have. But surely she wouldn't be so indiscreet about that in a phone call? Would she? Unless she's being forced into having to be "fitted with something"? Fitted-up?
I'm momentarily falling into into moral relativity. Snap out! I've concocted another back story for another someone, and here I am, now, erroneously finding some fleetingly chilling comfort that if she is "only" here to be "fitted up" then at least she's not here today to kill. Slap my own cheeks! Give my head a wobble, as the local kids say. It's all part of the same death dance. Abortion, contraception, two sides of the same anti-life bloodcoin. And euthanasia in the same wallet. Remember that piece just published on LifeSite about contraception? Pope St John Paul II gave us the shorthand to hit the nail-on-the-head: The Culture of Death. So, don't ever, ever, ever fall into that mental trap – however briefly – of thinking contraception is relatively okay, in the moment, because "at least it's not abortion". Keep your wits! This place slaughters over 300 babies a month – hey, even bpas calls them "babies" if they're aborted because of "foetal abnormality"; in that case they even offer scan "mementos" and "footprints" to treasure (I wonder if they come at an extra cost - nah, not even bpas would be that callous, would they? You think!) That's about 4,200 dead babies a year. Some 80 per week.
The very fact that everyone in my eyesight, smoking nervously, and looking so incredibly pensive – well, apart from those two! – tells me that they all know that it's babies being murdered in there. How many of those are due to failed contraception? Think!! How many are due to the warped and self-entitled contraceptive mentality now hardwired into concrete hearts for half a century now? The "it failed – so it's not my fault that I got pregnant, therefore I have a right to get rid" mindset? Stay alert! How many little innocents have perished because their once-contracepting mum stopped her "regime", but not her mentality, and maybe got lazy, or just forgot, or just thought things would be okay anyway, or simply considered that abortion is always there as a safety net anyway? Another form of contraception? How many have died because "dad" insisted on no contraception, not caring if "she gets pregnant" because "she can always get rid"? Stupid! I know better than to ever think so lazily, even momentarily. Have for years. The wickedness and snares of the devil!
That's right. Contraception oils the wheels of the murder machines. So, too, so-called "sex-ed". Hey, thanks for that tribute this week, Archbishop. For "sex-ed" for four-year-olds! FOUR-YEAR-OLDS! And a Catholic Archbishop welcomes it! (Liverpolitanus note: yes, we've noted it; we have been warning people, though; we'll get on to the subject in due course; meantime, the valiant Torch of the Faith team is already on the case here and here). So never lose sight of the fact that contraception has ushered this whole death train in. Never, ever forget it. Even for a millisecond, like just now. Get behind me, Satan! It's exactly as Pope Blessed Paul VI predicted in Humanae Vitae: contraception means more abortions. It's the basic counter-intuitive, to them, reality that the pro-abortion lot just never grasp. 50 years of stats have proved it. The more "sex-ed", condoms, coils, pills and the rest that have become available, the more "unwanted" babies are aborted. But they'll never get that. They don't want to. Neither does the Archbishop, it seems. There I go again with my despair. I can't allow myself to think that they'll never come to see the light of truth regarding "sex-ed", abortion and contraception. Otherwise, why bother standing here praying? No, they will see the light. One day. The veil will be lifted. Never lose hope about that. Prayer will win! Faith can move mountains! The Immaculate Heart will triumph. Eventually. There will be – there are – trials. The worst may be yet to come. Terrifying thought. But there will then be a period of great peace. The Lady at Fatima told us. Do I believe this? Yes! The Fatima centenary this year, of course. This is the last Lent before that major anniversary. All Lents are vital. But maybe this one more so? No, don't let them catch you looking at the floor. Head up. Keep looking at the purple door. Thousand yard stare! Long, long sigh. I'll never be able to reconcile the Pope of Humanae Vitae with the same pontiff who opened the door to the Church mess of the last half century but I'm so grateful for that encyclical. I'll never understand Assisi and what went through his head when he kissed the Koran, but what a giant Pope St John Paul II was for the defence of life – the Pope of Evangelium Vitae...
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| The shaded text says, in bpas' own words (our emphasis): "(Mementos of the pregnancy include) ultrasound pictures or footprints, and these can be arranged on request. If you would like to be able to see and hold your baby after the procedure, please talk to a member of staff..." |
The very fact that everyone in my eyesight, smoking nervously, and looking so incredibly pensive – well, apart from those two! – tells me that they all know that it's babies being murdered in there. How many of those are due to failed contraception? Think!! How many are due to the warped and self-entitled contraceptive mentality now hardwired into concrete hearts for half a century now? The "it failed – so it's not my fault that I got pregnant, therefore I have a right to get rid" mindset? Stay alert! How many little innocents have perished because their once-contracepting mum stopped her "regime", but not her mentality, and maybe got lazy, or just forgot, or just thought things would be okay anyway, or simply considered that abortion is always there as a safety net anyway? Another form of contraception? How many have died because "dad" insisted on no contraception, not caring if "she gets pregnant" because "she can always get rid"? Stupid! I know better than to ever think so lazily, even momentarily. Have for years. The wickedness and snares of the devil!
That's right. Contraception oils the wheels of the murder machines. So, too, so-called "sex-ed". Hey, thanks for that tribute this week, Archbishop. For "sex-ed" for four-year-olds! FOUR-YEAR-OLDS! And a Catholic Archbishop welcomes it! (Liverpolitanus note: yes, we've noted it; we have been warning people, though; we'll get on to the subject in due course; meantime, the valiant Torch of the Faith team is already on the case here and here). So never lose sight of the fact that contraception has ushered this whole death train in. Never, ever forget it. Even for a millisecond, like just now. Get behind me, Satan! It's exactly as Pope Blessed Paul VI predicted in Humanae Vitae: contraception means more abortions. It's the basic counter-intuitive, to them, reality that the pro-abortion lot just never grasp. 50 years of stats have proved it. The more "sex-ed", condoms, coils, pills and the rest that have become available, the more "unwanted" babies are aborted. But they'll never get that. They don't want to. Neither does the Archbishop, it seems. There I go again with my despair. I can't allow myself to think that they'll never come to see the light of truth regarding "sex-ed", abortion and contraception. Otherwise, why bother standing here praying? No, they will see the light. One day. The veil will be lifted. Never lose hope about that. Prayer will win! Faith can move mountains! The Immaculate Heart will triumph. Eventually. There will be – there are – trials. The worst may be yet to come. Terrifying thought. But there will then be a period of great peace. The Lady at Fatima told us. Do I believe this? Yes! The Fatima centenary this year, of course. This is the last Lent before that major anniversary. All Lents are vital. But maybe this one more so? No, don't let them catch you looking at the floor. Head up. Keep looking at the purple door. Thousand yard stare! Long, long sigh. I'll never be able to reconcile the Pope of Humanae Vitae with the same pontiff who opened the door to the Church mess of the last half century but I'm so grateful for that encyclical. I'll never understand Assisi and what went through his head when he kissed the Koran, but what a giant Pope St John Paul II was for the defence of life – the Pope of Evangelium Vitae...
...I've wandered again. I'm meant to be praying. I am! But I'm meant to be concentrating. Forgive me, Lord. And forgive me even that milli-milli-second of evil relativity. And that despair. Just that this place is such a mind trap. You can lose track of your own thoughts. Least I can and do. There's an anti-energy that seems to distort the mind. It's a trial, you know that, Lord, just keeping a grasp on the enormity of it all standing before me. I'm a weakling. I can only just about cope being here. It really is that bad. Get behind me, Satan? It's hard when he's standing right in front of me in the shape of that house of horrors. Mocking me with that purple door. Keep me close, Lord. Spare me the darkness. No don't. I don't ever want to be desensitised to this place. Hello darkness, my old foe... My mind is in full turmoil now. I knew this would happen.
More rain. My fingers are snapping. My feet are feeling it now.
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v. The Rosary Joy is near done. He's about to be found in the temple. About His Father's business.
I must revert to an English Rosary. I can't explain it. Actually, I can. I'm failing and flailing here. Really, really struggling to hold on. Not just the weather. That's actually quite easy. It's perversely comforting. Blimey, who wants sunshine here? No, I'm just finding it hard enough to think straight in English, let alone pray in Latin. My head is all over the place. Mary, Mother, please accept into your basket those few Latin decades for the pathetic effort they truly were.
I must revert to an English Rosary. I can't explain it. Actually, I can. I'm failing and flailing here. Really, really struggling to hold on. Not just the weather. That's actually quite easy. It's perversely comforting. Blimey, who wants sunshine here? No, I'm just finding it hard enough to think straight in English, let alone pray in Latin. My head is all over the place. Mary, Mother, please accept into your basket those few Latin decades for the pathetic effort they truly were.
Here's a bigger white van. Not quite a truck. Filthy thing. Mind, the weather is vile. The other, little, white work-van, is still turning its engine over. Maybe there's a workman in the smaller van waiting for the driver of the bigger van? No, that bloke emerging from the bigger van – scruffy, natch – seems to be about his own business. Ancillary of some sort. What's the bashed about, seen far better days, silver crate on wheels that he's now lowering out of the back? The locked hatch on it looks simply horrendous and utterly sinister in this setting. "bpas Merseyside" - that's what's gem-marked in scrawl on the side of it. Looks like those silver trunk containers they lock into place on a plane. But that's not got hot meals or duty-free perfume in it, though. It's about the same size as most Novus Ordo altars...no, don't go there...there's quite enough to lament about here for the moment without weighing my mind down about the liturgy. But don't fall into that old false dichotomy of either being concerned about life matters or the generally wretched state of Church liturgy. It's all part of the same modern degradation. Like abortion, contraception, euthanasia, "sex-ed". All ingredients in the poisonous, modernist mixing pot.
What on earth is in that metal trunk? Probably linens. If it is a laundry van, it's somehow fitting that it's so filthy. Oh, there he goes, wheeling it casually around the back. It's just all so - routine. Please don't start whistling while you work, sir. Does he even know what this place is? Does he know what bpas really means? Is it just a job? What if a pro-lifer got that job as a delivery van driver and then discovered that he had to come here on his route? "Sorry, love, I know we're struggling to pay the bills and clothe the kids but I've had to resign – I just can't bring myself to even deal with that place using the very longest spoon." He's coming back now. With a different crate! One in, one out. Also battered. He's mangling the loading of it. That's gonna fall off the edge. Now he's got it. What was in that, then? Probably more linens. Bloodstained, likely. But what else might have been in there? They, bpas, say they treat the disposal of "foetal remains" - dead babies - with dignity. So just how do they get rid of what needs to be taken away? Oh yeah, I remember, from previous visits, that there's a silver chimney protruding from the right hand side of the evil roof. Yep, there it still is. I've been looking at the purple door all this time. Look at the wisps of grey smoke against the deeper grey sky. Really? No!!! What am I seeing? That place is surely centrally-heated. That doesn't produce a chimney smoke, does it? This is a leafy residential area. They can't have a chimney belching out, surely? No. They wouldn't do that? But, how do they get rid of...let's be blunt...the butchered babies? Maybe in a locked silver crate on wheels that gets collected by an unmarked white van once each day, with another empty one duly dispatched which will be full again within 24 hours? No, surely not? Good God! What am I watching here? He's not driving away with a cargo of death, surely? They wouldn't do that. Yes they would! All unmarked. But no, he seemed so casual, so workaday. Maybe I am on the right lines in wondering about the sinisterness of that chimney smoke. And why a tall, thin, silvery-metal chimney? That's industrial that. All the other properties have the chimneys you'd expect of Victorian properties. Not so the Bates Motel. So how do they dispose of what they evidently must despise? (otherwise they wouldn't rip or suck these precious little souls from the rightful sanctity of their mother's wombs and then discard their butchered bodies as trash to be dealt with). Via the white van, then, or the chimney? Or both?
What on earth is in that metal trunk? Probably linens. If it is a laundry van, it's somehow fitting that it's so filthy. Oh, there he goes, wheeling it casually around the back. It's just all so - routine. Please don't start whistling while you work, sir. Does he even know what this place is? Does he know what bpas really means? Is it just a job? What if a pro-lifer got that job as a delivery van driver and then discovered that he had to come here on his route? "Sorry, love, I know we're struggling to pay the bills and clothe the kids but I've had to resign – I just can't bring myself to even deal with that place using the very longest spoon." He's coming back now. With a different crate! One in, one out. Also battered. He's mangling the loading of it. That's gonna fall off the edge. Now he's got it. What was in that, then? Probably more linens. Bloodstained, likely. But what else might have been in there? They, bpas, say they treat the disposal of "foetal remains" - dead babies - with dignity. So just how do they get rid of what needs to be taken away? Oh yeah, I remember, from previous visits, that there's a silver chimney protruding from the right hand side of the evil roof. Yep, there it still is. I've been looking at the purple door all this time. Look at the wisps of grey smoke against the deeper grey sky. Really? No!!! What am I seeing? That place is surely centrally-heated. That doesn't produce a chimney smoke, does it? This is a leafy residential area. They can't have a chimney belching out, surely? No. They wouldn't do that? But, how do they get rid of...let's be blunt...the butchered babies? Maybe in a locked silver crate on wheels that gets collected by an unmarked white van once each day, with another empty one duly dispatched which will be full again within 24 hours? No, surely not? Good God! What am I watching here? He's not driving away with a cargo of death, surely? They wouldn't do that. Yes they would! All unmarked. But no, he seemed so casual, so workaday. Maybe I am on the right lines in wondering about the sinisterness of that chimney smoke. And why a tall, thin, silvery-metal chimney? That's industrial that. All the other properties have the chimneys you'd expect of Victorian properties. Not so the Bates Motel. So how do they dispose of what they evidently must despise? (otherwise they wouldn't rip or suck these precious little souls from the rightful sanctity of their mother's wombs and then discard their butchered bodies as trash to be dealt with). Via the white van, then, or the chimney? Or both?
I've gone again. I can remember concentrating on the first few Aves, and when they found Him in the Temple but then that van arrived. Then I saw the chimney. Then my mind went spinning again. I'm right in the midst of this now. Beyond damp to officially being wet. Hungry, too, but the sense of my stomach pangs seems obnoxious outside here. The bleakness is unrelenting. I am genuinely suffering disturbance here. I know that. Okay, it might only be buffeting. Whatever. I'm gonna suffer the after effects of this badly.
_
vi. Another Credo. Now into Gethsemane.
The gardens! The charming properties around here with their original gardens! The Hammer House has obliterated the one that was surely once there in favour of the tarmac staff car-park. How very utilitarian. Maybe children once played in that garden. Lord! - children probably once played right around that house. Christmas mornings! Summer games! Could the families that once dwelt there even in their worst imaginings have ever dreamed that their home would one day become a hall of death. Maybe it was even a Catholic house. Children may have been born there. People may have died there - naturally. Sacraments received there, perhaps? (Liverpolitanus note: that last point is very probably true, as we'll explain; whilst we cannot comment on the history of the building in the very earliest parts of the 20th century, and it may well have been a family home, we do know enough about that site's putrid history over the last 60 or so years; for although the building is now one of bpas' horror properties, and has been since some time in the mid-1990s, it was formerly called the "Merseyside Nursing Home" as can be seen by this Hansard link from 1992 (Column 89) and was already an approved "abortion clinic" prior to bpas' highly profitable corporate landgrab of such bloodsoaked premises around the UK; prior to that it was called the "Lynwood Nursing Home" and it was under that title that the site's notoriety as a major abortoir began; indeed the property's modern history is utterly wretched; it was a baby butchery from the very start of Her Majesty's Government's approval, in 1967, of the utter genocide of its own future generations, the numbers of which will – though we place our hope always in the supernatural and the enormous power of prayer – soon likely show, probably prior to the end of 2018, that over 9 million souls have perished since "legality" came into force on April 27th, 1968; and as can be read on this Hansard link from September 27th, 1971 (with abortion statistics from 1968-71 that are truly heartbreaking and terrifying) the Lynwood was No. 51 among the first 53 national centres so "approved" to conduct the start of that wholesale elimination of the future millions; more chillingly, as can be seen in our grab image below – from the Liverpool City Council online planning archives – the need for the Lynwood premises to expand its footprint and logistics, presumably to meet the growing demand of its demonic "services", must have been macabrely apparent by the latter parts of 1969, for a planning application was conditionally approved, by February of 1970, "to extend existing nursing home [single storey extension at rear; incinerator room; wash room and toilet)"; one need hardly be Columbo to fathom as to why; our Google Street View grab further below shows the disturbing extent of that 1970 structural extension, which is near nauseating to look at it and indeed we wonder what, as Google's camera plane flew overhead, might have been occurring directly beneath its sky-lens; prior to the passing of the UK Abortion Act it is not entirely clear as to what "nursing" provisions the Lynwood home offered; however, that it was indeed, to some extent, a residential home/hospital for the sick or elderly is evident and it is therefore not hard to imagine that priests will likely have been called to that building to administer the sacraments to the dying and gravely ill; but it is also our suspicion that, as well as starting out as a nursing home in the normal, moral sense of that term, the site inexorably became, by the mid 20th century, a hush-hush centre for abortions in the decade at least leading up to 1967, if not earlier; indeed it is further our belief, though inevitably hard to substantiate, that the Lynwood was an illegal "back street" abortion location – to purposefully peddle that tired cliché – and with the utmost hypocrisy the site simply went, in the space of seven months between 1967 and 1968, from being a clandestine centre for illegal abortion procedures to one where mass slaughter was suddenly approved with sickeningly rocketing death statistics; thus, the "back street" scare tag apparently no longer applied or mattered!).
One day bpas will no longer be there. Prayers will triumph. No matter how much those opposite will laugh, scoff and scorn. So what then for that building? They had to bulldoze 10 Rillington Place, Fred West's gaff, and other notorious properties of recent infamy. They'll surely have to raze to the ground this Hades on earth, too? Who the hell - right word - would ever live there again, or even use the premises?
A seagull passes high. Liverpool. It avoids the Bates Motel. What might it sense in the core of its creation? I've only ever seen one single bird land on that place: an enormous raven. 35 or so minutes I've been here now. Although it is raining. Anyway, I've always thought there seems to be a near complete absence of wildlife in this part of this infamous road. Hmm. Maybe I'm over-reaching here. Then again, I wouldn't live in the road, that's for sure.
Is that a cherry tree, next door, overhanging into the car-park of the abyss? Curious that only two branches have bothered to sprout blossom. Probably due to those very clement 36 hours we had to welcome in March. Before the cold and damp swiftly returned. No doubt the tree sensibly hit its snooze button for a few more days/weeks. If things work like that. How wonderful – no, not wonderful, I need another better word again – it would be if, when the cherry blossoms do come in a few weeks, that only the branches on the other side of the wall, where the tree is actually rooted, burst forth in pinky-white beauty whilst the branches overhanging Golgotha flatly refuse to show forth their glory! The branches showing their revulsion. Mind, the staff probably wouldn't even notice. They're probably blind to creation full stop. I despise this place. I hate coming here.
The wet has finally started to drip down the back of my neck. If this becomes too much to bear, I might have to conclude the Mysteries back in my car. I'm only here for another 20 mins, though.
vii. "Could you not stay awake with me but one hour?"
They've scourged Him. Now piercing His scalp with twisted thorns.
Guilt at that last thought.
Now come the first exits I've seen. These new folks haven't been on smoking parade. A couple. Late 20s. Actually that's two women I've seen emerging in long skirts. How very Trad! Nothing Trad or "Long Skirts" poetic about their reasoning for that attire, I'll bet. Comfort wear on the girls/women seems to be the order. Leisure/training trousers and long skirts. There's no denying it, the late 20s woman actually seems excited. He even seems proud. She's been "fitted up". She hasn't just terminated a life that was growing within her until a few hours ago. She wouldn't be so, so - so, well, airy about it all. Or is that my naivete again? Off now into their rather fetching sporty little car. Looks as though life's all going great for them. A re-assuring little inside-car kiss between them as if to cement their accomplishment, whatever it may have been.
There's no denying it, that next girl out is actually giddy. Her man - looks more like a boy really - seems more restrained, though. Please no, she's actually now given a quick little skip-run-laugh-between-the-raindrops back to the car. The pour is actually quite heavy now, that's the only benefit of the doubt I can give her. There's just no slow, reflective demeanour about her. I'm inclined to say she's been "fitted up", too, but his vibe gives the game away, I think.
Hadn't really noticed the Mercedes right in front of me. I've been paying more attention to the small white van in front of it. Ah, the engine is off now. Finally.
These two now emerging from "behind the purple door" are heading straight for the Merc and towards me. He's 40-plus. Her late 30s. That's twice she's looked back at me from inside the car. Now a third time. It's an accusatory look, allright. No doubt about it. It's not a "why are you standing getting soaked?" look. They speed away. The space that was beneath their car is still incongruously dry. That means they must have parked there several hours ago. That hasn't been a quick in-and-out to be "fitted up".
The dry tarmac, now slowly being filled by rain, is plainly revolting to see amidst the rest of the saturated surroundings. Less than two minutes it's taken and that once dry ground is now as wet, dark and grim as all around. I see the air space where her passenger seat would have been; was there a vulnerable little innocent occupying that very spot just a few hours ago?
The smoke from the chimney is getting heavier and darker.
viii. Veronica. Simon of Cyrene.
My face is soaked. I need a towel. Mere rain, though.
Another little sportster pulls up. Bloke - he looks like the image of William Rufus in my school history book; William the Red doing a passable impression of Henry VIII - races from the passenger side of the car and up to and quickly "inside the purple door". To avoid the rain, it seems. It is now a bit wild, it has to be said. He's looking back now at whoever is in the car with a "made it!" victory look. Oh it's because he's just in a tee-shirt. "Look, I stayed dry!". And off he goes inside. I can't see who is left in the car. It has steamed up immediately.
A sickener. I can now see someone, hard to tell if its male or female, in blue scrubs through that middle window straight ahead. It's a male. Washing his hands by the looks. The sight of the blue scrubs has made my heart pound. What has he just done? The storm inside my head is instant and unbearable: babies are dying in there! It's like it's just entered my head for the first time! I feel like I've had a high-voltage electric shock. The screamingly obvious has re-stormed like a sudden tornado right to the front of my brain. Babies are dying! Being murdered, suctioned, butchered, just yards away in front of me. It's like I'm re-remembering what I actually haven't forgotten. Like those re-dawning headlines, of already known news-shockers, that I remember re-entering my head, like waves, to shock me all over again, down the years. "My goodness, they really have put a man on the moon; oh no, the Pope really has died; Good Lord, another Pope really has died so soon; oh my, we really are at war with Argentina; it is true, Everton really did win the Cup!; wow - Margaret Thatcher really has resigned; sigh - Dad really did die last month; just awful - Diana really was killed; oh my word, they really did fly planes into those buildings, those towers actually did collapse before millions watching on TV; oh no, the Pope really is dead; praise the Lord, they really did elect Ratzinger!; what? the Pope really did resign!; I can't believe it - they really, really are killing babies in there! There's someone in blue scrubs and I can see them."
This disturbance is getting worse. I can see green scrubs now, through another window.
At first it was all smokers outside. But they all seem to have gone back inside now, for quite a while, and ominously haven't come back out. To replace the smokers there's been slew of folks - couples mainly - whom I hadn't seen before, gradually emerging like a rush over the last few minutes. Like a macabre changing of the guard. And now "nurses" or "surgeons" can be seen through the windows. As though the first part of their day is over. Now for Act II.
Those smokers? They're not coming back out, then?
ix. Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do."
"Hepburn" hasn't come back out. I fear the very worst.
"William Rufus" is still in there.
Oh no! A woman, late 20s, has suddenly stepped out of the passenger side of the small, white work-van. I really, really wasn't expecting that. She's been inside there all along, hidden by the condensation. Now a bloke, early 30s, is getting out of the driver side. All that time there was a couple inside! I'd just assumed it was a workman of some sort, maybe sheltering from the rain. Waiting for a workmate. Why, though, was the engine running for so long, as though they maybe weren't planning to stop? Why did they eventually switch the engine off after 40 or so minutes? And they were there before I arrived, I'm sure. They must have sat and talked, engine running, for almost an hour, then. The conversation must have reached crisis point when they finally switched it off. So what's made them get out now? Or who? Satan. This, truly, is not about her "going inside" to get "fitted up", however evil that would be. They wouldn't have sat there for so long discussing that. I can only assume and fear the very worst. Did she want to keep her baby? Or did he, maybe? Why did they speak for so long? I can't believe he has just looked at me and then looked to the floor and quickly back up, dejectedly with a half, forced smile of failed resignation. No it wasn't a smile. Am I dreaming here or has he just flashed me an apologetic "I tried my best" benign grimace? I can't believe I returned the same gesture as an automatic reaction. Reciprocal body-language. It's another narrative I've formed, about them, I know. But I think I'm reading this one straight. I'm sure he's just tried to save the little soul that's still growing and whose heartbeat is happily still going inside her, just yards from me. But now going further away. She's just looking straight ahead. Determined. Arms folded. But maybe she feels that she has no choice? And he's forcing her into it? Either way, there's just no stopping her.
Lord, may Your infinite mercy enfold that little one; may the graces of conversion stir the souls of those who have taken that tiny innocent surely to its end.
They've gone inside.
• the story of delayed treatment for a 16-year-old suffering from sepsis;
• filled but unlabelled syringes left lying unattended on unsterile surfaces for hours;
• risks of cross contamination from staff members’ normal clothes left alongside theatre-wear;
• lack of a resuscitation trolley in the recovery room;
• other trolleys used for the placing of “pieces of equipment” on them;
• lack of “robust systems” in place to check emergency equipment and lax procedures in routine defibrillator checks and awareness of the need to do so;
• powder latex gloves that had expired in November 2013; “suctioning sets” that had expired in July 2015; and respiratory sets that had expired in May 2015;
• uncapped and therefore “no longer sterile” syringes left in anaesthetic room;
• pre-theatre syringe procedures directly placing patients at risk of being intravenously injected with 2ml of air;
• lack of records concerning the frequency of the cleaning of toilets or surfaces;
• a dubious history of theatre compliance including a staff member wearing a wrist watch and not being “bare below the elbows”; no clean shoes available for visitors; tears in stirrups; peeling wall paint and damaged door frames;
• an equally disturbing contemporary standard including recorded incidences of:
- a “casual bag” being left on the theatre floor;
- a member of theatre staff with untied or uncovered below-the-shoulder hair during procedures;
- staff exiting the theatre and attending the general ward without changing “theatre shoes” or covering them “to reduce infection”;
- staff exiting the theatre openly carrying un-bagged bundles of bedding which was "not in line with best practice guidance on handling linen and presented a risk of cross infection”;
- the anaesthetic machine, scan machine, "airway suction machine” and “vacuum machine” bearing expired maintenance check stickers, thereby making it unclear "whether these pieces of equipment had been subject to the appropriate maintenance checks”;
and for final bad measure:
- observations in theatre which recorded that "the surgeon did not wash or clean their hands prior to wearing gloves and gauntlets to perform a surgical procedure”.
The bpas clinic in Liverpool must close.
We urge our local readers to spread the truth of bpas in Sefton Park, Liverpool, far and wide.
Finally, we noted how quickly that members of our local Catholic hierarchy spoke out humanistically (a word we choose unapologetically, as this link will sufficiently show: "I dream of a new European humanism that can blossom in our city") about the matter of Brexit (and we've held off for seven months from writing about that "humanistic" dog-whistling, with the token references to Jesus and God bolted-on to the speech in the last two paragraphs, as though an after-thought!). We also note that the very same local auxiliary bishop is the Chair of the Healthcare Reference Group of the Bishops' Conference of England and Wales. Accordingly, we call on him to join the calls for the bpas Liverpool clinic to be shut down.
It cannot always be left to the laity to speak out.
Guilt at that last thought.
Now come the first exits I've seen. These new folks haven't been on smoking parade. A couple. Late 20s. Actually that's two women I've seen emerging in long skirts. How very Trad! Nothing Trad or "Long Skirts" poetic about their reasoning for that attire, I'll bet. Comfort wear on the girls/women seems to be the order. Leisure/training trousers and long skirts. There's no denying it, the late 20s woman actually seems excited. He even seems proud. She's been "fitted up". She hasn't just terminated a life that was growing within her until a few hours ago. She wouldn't be so, so - so, well, airy about it all. Or is that my naivete again? Off now into their rather fetching sporty little car. Looks as though life's all going great for them. A re-assuring little inside-car kiss between them as if to cement their accomplishment, whatever it may have been.
There's no denying it, that next girl out is actually giddy. Her man - looks more like a boy really - seems more restrained, though. Please no, she's actually now given a quick little skip-run-laugh-between-the-raindrops back to the car. The pour is actually quite heavy now, that's the only benefit of the doubt I can give her. There's just no slow, reflective demeanour about her. I'm inclined to say she's been "fitted up", too, but his vibe gives the game away, I think.
Hadn't really noticed the Mercedes right in front of me. I've been paying more attention to the small white van in front of it. Ah, the engine is off now. Finally.
These two now emerging from "behind the purple door" are heading straight for the Merc and towards me. He's 40-plus. Her late 30s. That's twice she's looked back at me from inside the car. Now a third time. It's an accusatory look, allright. No doubt about it. It's not a "why are you standing getting soaked?" look. They speed away. The space that was beneath their car is still incongruously dry. That means they must have parked there several hours ago. That hasn't been a quick in-and-out to be "fitted up".
The dry tarmac, now slowly being filled by rain, is plainly revolting to see amidst the rest of the saturated surroundings. Less than two minutes it's taken and that once dry ground is now as wet, dark and grim as all around. I see the air space where her passenger seat would have been; was there a vulnerable little innocent occupying that very spot just a few hours ago?
The smoke from the chimney is getting heavier and darker.
viii. Veronica. Simon of Cyrene.
My face is soaked. I need a towel. Mere rain, though.
Another little sportster pulls up. Bloke - he looks like the image of William Rufus in my school history book; William the Red doing a passable impression of Henry VIII - races from the passenger side of the car and up to and quickly "inside the purple door". To avoid the rain, it seems. It is now a bit wild, it has to be said. He's looking back now at whoever is in the car with a "made it!" victory look. Oh it's because he's just in a tee-shirt. "Look, I stayed dry!". And off he goes inside. I can't see who is left in the car. It has steamed up immediately.
A sickener. I can now see someone, hard to tell if its male or female, in blue scrubs through that middle window straight ahead. It's a male. Washing his hands by the looks. The sight of the blue scrubs has made my heart pound. What has he just done? The storm inside my head is instant and unbearable: babies are dying in there! It's like it's just entered my head for the first time! I feel like I've had a high-voltage electric shock. The screamingly obvious has re-stormed like a sudden tornado right to the front of my brain. Babies are dying! Being murdered, suctioned, butchered, just yards away in front of me. It's like I'm re-remembering what I actually haven't forgotten. Like those re-dawning headlines, of already known news-shockers, that I remember re-entering my head, like waves, to shock me all over again, down the years. "My goodness, they really have put a man on the moon; oh no, the Pope really has died; Good Lord, another Pope really has died so soon; oh my, we really are at war with Argentina; it is true, Everton really did win the Cup!; wow - Margaret Thatcher really has resigned; sigh - Dad really did die last month; just awful - Diana really was killed; oh my word, they really did fly planes into those buildings, those towers actually did collapse before millions watching on TV; oh no, the Pope really is dead; praise the Lord, they really did elect Ratzinger!; what? the Pope really did resign!; I can't believe it - they really, really are killing babies in there! There's someone in blue scrubs and I can see them."
This disturbance is getting worse. I can see green scrubs now, through another window.
At first it was all smokers outside. But they all seem to have gone back inside now, for quite a while, and ominously haven't come back out. To replace the smokers there's been slew of folks - couples mainly - whom I hadn't seen before, gradually emerging like a rush over the last few minutes. Like a macabre changing of the guard. And now "nurses" or "surgeons" can be seen through the windows. As though the first part of their day is over. Now for Act II.
Those smokers? They're not coming back out, then?
ix. Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do."
"Hepburn" hasn't come back out. I fear the very worst.
"William Rufus" is still in there.
Oh no! A woman, late 20s, has suddenly stepped out of the passenger side of the small, white work-van. I really, really wasn't expecting that. She's been inside there all along, hidden by the condensation. Now a bloke, early 30s, is getting out of the driver side. All that time there was a couple inside! I'd just assumed it was a workman of some sort, maybe sheltering from the rain. Waiting for a workmate. Why, though, was the engine running for so long, as though they maybe weren't planning to stop? Why did they eventually switch the engine off after 40 or so minutes? And they were there before I arrived, I'm sure. They must have sat and talked, engine running, for almost an hour, then. The conversation must have reached crisis point when they finally switched it off. So what's made them get out now? Or who? Satan. This, truly, is not about her "going inside" to get "fitted up", however evil that would be. They wouldn't have sat there for so long discussing that. I can only assume and fear the very worst. Did she want to keep her baby? Or did he, maybe? Why did they speak for so long? I can't believe he has just looked at me and then looked to the floor and quickly back up, dejectedly with a half, forced smile of failed resignation. No it wasn't a smile. Am I dreaming here or has he just flashed me an apologetic "I tried my best" benign grimace? I can't believe I returned the same gesture as an automatic reaction. Reciprocal body-language. It's another narrative I've formed, about them, I know. But I think I'm reading this one straight. I'm sure he's just tried to save the little soul that's still growing and whose heartbeat is happily still going inside her, just yards from me. But now going further away. She's just looking straight ahead. Determined. Arms folded. But maybe she feels that she has no choice? And he's forcing her into it? Either way, there's just no stopping her.
Lord, may Your infinite mercy enfold that little one; may the graces of conversion stir the souls of those who have taken that tiny innocent surely to its end.
They've gone inside.
–
x. Believe. He has conquered death. He is Risen.
There's now so much visible activity through those windows. It's basically been one lot out and another lot in. Most of the earlier smokers were probably not "waiting for someone" after all. They were just "waiting". And smoking. Even in the rain.
I can hardly recall any of the previous five Rosary decades. Possibly the worst set of prayers I've ever sent heavenward. It's just been impossible to concentrate amidst the bleakness. I am knocked for six, yet again. I really cannot cope being here. What difference does it make, me being here? Especially if I'm meant to be praying but I can't because my mind is too fevered?
But I have been praying. I know I have been. The Rosary themes have been so prominent throughout, I recall that much, however much of a blur the rest of this stint has been. No other extraneous, mere trivial, thoughts, about life in general, have even once clouded my mind this last hour. If it's been almost impossible to keep a grasp on my prayed words, it's been totally impossible to think about anything beyond this road of death, in fact this 50 yard stretch of it and what I can see in front and to the immediate peripheries of me. It's the reverse of the norm. The world and its immanent din is usually so dominant that it's normally a trial to shut it out. No so here. There's no mental room for anything trivial to invade the mind. This place is so all-together shocking, so much the very depths of the world's ingloriousness that it has forced everything else from my mind.
Intention matters in Catholicism. So does location. I can be at home and pray just as intensely for those precious ones being bludgeoned inside that purple door. Many pro-life supporters have no choice, they simply cannot come here for many, many preventing reasons. But I do have a choice as to whether to come here or not. I can come here. So I choose to come here. Hey, I'm "pro-choice!" Because it's only by coming here that I can directly sense the waves of terror that permeate right around this evil spot. I wouldn't get that at home. THAT'S why I'm here.
The purple door analogy again:
Scenario 1: I can be at home and my prayers will of course count - I pray more for the unborn at home, or in church than I ever can and do here. I can't stand here all my life. But it's only when I come here that I get that extra terrible and disturbing sense which hammers home the sheer evil of the Devil's empty and damned promise in ways that being several miles removed from this place never can. It gets me every time. The disturbance never lessens. Being here, in front of the death house, especially in these penitential Lenten weeks, will always deliver an extra dimension. It's like staring down Satan face-to-face knowing that I just need the strength to do so. In these Lenten weeks it's enough for me to just fix on that purple door of violence.
Scenario 2: I can be at home and my prayers will of course count - I pray more for my own intentions at home than I ever do at church and before the Blessed Sacrament. I can't kneel in church all my life. But it's when I kneel before Him that I get that extra blessed and tranquil sense which illuminates the sheer glory and beauty of Christ's full and eternal promise in ways that being several miles removed from the Blessed Sacrament never can. It gets me every time. The peace never lessens. Being there, kneeling before the tabernacle, especially in these penitential Lenten weeks, will always deliver an extra dimension. It's like longing to see the face of Christ knowing that in my weakness and impurity I just could not withstand it yet. In these Lenten weeks it's enough for me to just gaze at the violet veils of peace.
Lord, I leave now. Pray that my laboured and tortured prayers have gained merit. That they have joined with all those souls who have ever prayed at this spot – and those who ever will – that the power of these pleas will finally pour the graces of conversion on all who peddle the evils perpetrated "inside that purple door" and the thousands like it around the world. May all whom I've seen entering inside in this sorry and soaking hour change their heart. Deliver them, Lord, from Satan's clutches.
Lord, we pray for an end to abortion.
Mother Mary, deliver my Rosary today to Your Son, for the protection of all the defenceless little ones.
The drive home. Within seconds I'm passing a Catholic girls' college. Another third of a mile and there's the Archdiocesan curial offices. It's just bizarre to turn a few corners from all that evil and suddenly happen on "Catholic land".
It's started. The price I knew I would pay. The after-echoes of an hour standing before hell. I remember the first time I ever felt this sickening linger-sense. I couldn't fathom what it was because it reared up so seemingly randomly and in unrelated ways. Now I've well figured out what it is. The registration plate on the taxi in front has brought it all back to me. So has that kerb-stone. The mere sight of the petrol station. It's the sights and sounds of the things that man has manufactured. They seem so obscene. They jar. The material world really grates. My mind can only seem to cope with God's creation: the trees, the grass, more seagulls.
In 36 hours, after two sleeps, this will finally pass.
(Postscript: it did pass, almost exactly 36 hours later, as I knew it would).
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CONCERNING THE CARE QUALITY COMMISSION'S REPORT ON BPAS MERSEYSIDE, PUBLISHED JANUARY 26th, 2017
Links:
Liverpolitanus note: the British National Health Service (NHS) could never be accused of being pro-life. Far from it. Therefore, it speaks volumes that enough of its practitioners in this area had their concerns raised sufficiently enough to call for the NHS' watchdog, the Care Quality Commission, to undertake an investigation into the practices at bpas' Liverpool clinic. They were right to do so and their concerns were well founded and grounded. The findings are truly shocking.
We urge all of our readers to read the report in full: as can be found HERE.
Among the disturbing aspects we noted, but there are many more that we could have listed:
• filled but unlabelled syringes left lying unattended on unsterile surfaces for hours;
• risks of cross contamination from staff members’ normal clothes left alongside theatre-wear;
• lack of a resuscitation trolley in the recovery room;
• other trolleys used for the placing of “pieces of equipment” on them;
• lack of “robust systems” in place to check emergency equipment and lax procedures in routine defibrillator checks and awareness of the need to do so;
• powder latex gloves that had expired in November 2013; “suctioning sets” that had expired in July 2015; and respiratory sets that had expired in May 2015;
• uncapped and therefore “no longer sterile” syringes left in anaesthetic room;
• pre-theatre syringe procedures directly placing patients at risk of being intravenously injected with 2ml of air;
• lack of records concerning the frequency of the cleaning of toilets or surfaces;
• a dubious history of theatre compliance including a staff member wearing a wrist watch and not being “bare below the elbows”; no clean shoes available for visitors; tears in stirrups; peeling wall paint and damaged door frames;
• an equally disturbing contemporary standard including recorded incidences of:
- a “casual bag” being left on the theatre floor;
- a member of theatre staff with untied or uncovered below-the-shoulder hair during procedures;
- staff exiting the theatre and attending the general ward without changing “theatre shoes” or covering them “to reduce infection”;
- staff exiting the theatre openly carrying un-bagged bundles of bedding which was "not in line with best practice guidance on handling linen and presented a risk of cross infection”;
- the anaesthetic machine, scan machine, "airway suction machine” and “vacuum machine” bearing expired maintenance check stickers, thereby making it unclear "whether these pieces of equipment had been subject to the appropriate maintenance checks”;
and for final bad measure:
- observations in theatre which recorded that "the surgeon did not wash or clean their hands prior to wearing gloves and gauntlets to perform a surgical procedure”.
The bpas clinic in Liverpool must close.
We urge our local readers to spread the truth of bpas in Sefton Park, Liverpool, far and wide.
Finally, we noted how quickly that members of our local Catholic hierarchy spoke out humanistically (a word we choose unapologetically, as this link will sufficiently show: "I dream of a new European humanism that can blossom in our city") about the matter of Brexit (and we've held off for seven months from writing about that "humanistic" dog-whistling, with the token references to Jesus and God bolted-on to the speech in the last two paragraphs, as though an after-thought!). We also note that the very same local auxiliary bishop is the Chair of the Healthcare Reference Group of the Bishops' Conference of England and Wales. Accordingly, we call on him to join the calls for the bpas Liverpool clinic to be shut down.
It cannot always be left to the laity to speak out.
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* Liverpolitanus end note; unrelated: our ongoing, deliberate and near year-long editorial silence – with a demonstrable point-to-prove – will generally continue for a little longer. However, as recent by-passers may have noted, we're slowly removing the dust covers, the purpose of our reluctant exercise having, sadly, already been well borne out. Months ago in fact. We see no reason to remain quiet much longer. Further, we see no cause to remove anything that we have previously published on this site. However, we wish to stress – emphatically - that no third parties have made any such demands on us.
