How the UK Border Agency nearly blew Robin Hood Airport "sky high"

A calamity at the "Twitter Joke Trial" airport of which you will not have heard

The security managers of Robin Hood Airport are well known for their zeal in searching Twitter while off-duty for tweets containing supposed "bomb threats" which are nothing of the kind

But while those responsible with the safety of the public and of staff at this South Yorkshire airport were concerning themselves in January 2010 with the now infamous tweet of Paul Chambers, a infinitely more dangerous incident had recently occurred, about which there appears to have been no publicity until yesterday.

 

A dangerous load

On 10 November 2009 an aircraft carrying anti-tank ammunition landed at the airport. It appears the manager of the UK Border Agency (UKBA) based at the airport decided that his staff were to carry out checks on the packed ammunition. It was evident that this was a hazard, but the manager proceeded with the idea and even directed the plane to a separate part of the airport for the exercise to take place.

The pilot warned the manager that the crates of ammunition were explosive. The pilot added that the crates should not be examined by any unqualified staff. But the warnings were ignored. The UKBA manager had determined that unqualified staff were going to unpack live ammunition from its casing. (One presumes all this was also to be done on a concrete floor and in the near proximity of a fuelled aircraft.)

The UKBA staff did as they were told and opened the five crates, each of which contained five rounds of anti-tank ammunition.  The staff then partially removed some explosive devices from protective packaging. We are told that this entailed the staff removing three separate layers of packaging, including opening the protective tubing and exposing live rounds of the anti-tank ammunition.

It was about a stupid decision as such a manager could make, and a decision putting the lives of staff and many others at genuine risk.

 

A matter of Health and Safety

When this incident came to the notice of the Health and Safety Executive (HSE), there was an immediate investigation. It was clear that there had been a breach of Sections 2 and 3 of the Health and Safety at Work etc Act 1974

As the HSE later stated:

The HSE investigation found that UKBA had failed to carry out a suitable risk assessment to enable them to complete the checks safely. Had they done so, they would have recognised several problems.

There was a significant risk that the ammunition could detonate if it was dropped which could have detonated the whole cargo. As a result, members of the public, airport workers and nearby aircraft were all put at risk on that day.

This was an understatement.  Although ammunition is (of course) not designed to explode easily, unpacking such materials is rightly the job of trained professionals.

In normal circumstances, there would have then been a prosecution of UKBA for its fundamental breach of health and safety law.

 

Censure, not prosecution

But UKBA was not to be prosecuted. This is because, as a Crown body, it cannot be prosecuted. This constitutional oddity means that UKBA - and other such bodies - escape the processes of the criminal justice system even when there has been a clear breach of the legal obligations which nonetheless still apply to them.

So instead of a public prosecution, the HSE had to follow a closed process called "Crown Censure". This is, in effect, a sequence of meetings where culpability is discussed and eventually determined. The meetings are not public, and the minutes of the meetings are not provided to the public. (Indeed, the HSE press officer laughed down the phone when I asked if the papers could be made available.)

Eventually, UKBA "accepted" the censure. The HSE said:

Our investigation into the details of the cargo verification by UKBA staff at Robin Hood Doncaster Sheffield airport found that the failings by the Agency were serious enough to warrant this course of action.

The evidence brought to light by the HSE investigation would be sufficient to provide a realistic prospect of conviction of UKBA in civilian courts. This Crown Censure is the maximum enforcement action that HSE can take and should serve to illustrate how seriously we take the failings we identified."

We are then told:

Mr Paul Darling, Corporate Director, Resources and Organisational Development, of the UK Border Agency attended the Crown Censure meeting on 19 December 2012 at the HSE premises in Sheffield and accepted the findings on behalf of UKBA.

But this cannot be a satisfactory process for matters of public safety. A number of people were put at risk that day by the sheer irresponsibility of a UKBA manager.

 

Tweets and ammunition and "Security Theatre"

UKBA has now had two years and a bit to get its act together after almost blowing a good part of Robin Hood Airport sky high. A press statement put out today said:

We deeply regret this incident. As acknowledged by the Health and Safety Executive, we have already made significant changes to the way we manage health and safety to avoid a similar incident occurring in the future.

UKBA, however, did not tell what these "significant changes" were. 

The contrast of superficial and and sensible approaches to safety has been called by the great Bruce Schneier as "Security Theatre". In airports and elsewhere, a lot is done just for show, and the elaborate gestures do little or nothing to actually achieve improved security. 

It would seem Robin Hood Airport is a case study of such a misconceived policy. In the space of a few months between November 2009 and January 2010, one security manager there almost caused a disaster while another concentrated on a harmless jokey tweet. 

And only the latter led to the criminal process even being engaged.

 

David Allen Green is legal correspondent of the New Statesman and was defence solicitor in the "Twitter Joke Trial" appeal at the High Court

 

Robin Hood Airport, safe from menacing tweets at least. Photograph: B Doon

David Allen Green is legal correspondent of the New Statesman and author of the Jack of Kent blog.

His legal journalism has included popularising the Simon Singh libel case and discrediting the Julian Assange myths about his extradition case.  His uncovering of the Nightjack email hack by the Times was described as "masterly analysis" by Lord Justice Leveson.

David is also a solicitor and was successful in the "Twitterjoketrial" appeal at the High Court.

(Nothing on this blog constitutes legal advice.)

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France is changing: an army stalks the streets and Boris Johnson wanders the Tuileries

Will Self on the militarisation of France, and Boris Johnson at the Foreign Office.

At the corner of the rue D’Hauteville and the rue de Paradis in the tenth arrondissement of Paris is a retro-video-games-themed bar, Le Fantôme, which is frequented by some not-so-jeunes gens – the kind of thirtysomethings nostalgic for an era when you had to go to an actual place if you wanted to enter virtual space. They sit placidly behind the plate-glass windows zapping Pac-Men and Space Invaders, while outside another – and rather more lethal – sort of phantom stalks the sunlit streets.

I often go to Paris for work, and so have been able to register the incremental militarisation of its streets since President Hollande first declared a state of emergency after last November’s terrorist attacks. In general the French seem more comfortable about this prêt-à-porter khaki than we’d probably be; the army-nation concept is, after all, encrypted deep in their collective psyche. The army was constituted as a revolutionary instrument. France was the first modern nation to introduce universal male conscription – and it continued in one form or another right up until the mid-1990s.

Even so, it was surprising to witness the sang-froid with which Parisians regarded the camouflaged phantoms wandering among them: a patrol numbering eight ­infantrymen and women moved up the roadway, scoping out doorways, nosing into passages – but when one peered into Le Fantôme, his assault rifle levelled, none of the boozing gamers paid the least attention. I witnessed this scene the Saturday after Mohamed Lahouaiej-Bouhlel ran amok on the Promenade des Anglais in Nice – it was a little preview of the new state of emergency.

On Monday 18 July the French premier, Manuel Valls, was booed at a memorial service for the victims of the Nice attacks – while Marine Le Pen has been making all the populist running, whipping up anxieties about the enemy within. For many French, the events of the past week – including the failed Turkish coup – are steps along the way limned by Michel Houellebecq in his bestselling novel Submission; a via dolorosa that ends with La Marianne wearing the hijab and France itself annexed by a new caliphate.

Into this febrile drama comes a new player: Boris Johnson, the British Foreign Secretary. What can we expect from this freshly minted statesman when it comes to our relations with our closest neighbour? There is no doubt that Johnson is a Francophile – I’ve run into him and his family at the Tuileries, and he made much of his own francophone status during the referendum campaign. In Paris last winter to launch the French edition of his Churchill biography, Johnson wowed a publication dinner by speaking French for the entire evening. He was sufficiently fluent to bumble, waffle and generally avoid saying anything serious at all.

Last Sunday I attended the Lambeth Country Show, an oxymoronic event for which the diverse inhabitants of my home borough gather in Brockwell Park, south London, for jerked and halal chicken, funfair rides, Quidditch-watching, and “country-style” activities, such as looking at farm animals and buying their products. Wandering among ancient Rastafarians with huge shocks of dreadlocks, British Muslims wearing immaculate white kurtas blazoned with “ASK ME ABOUT ISLAM” and crusty old Brixton punks, I found it quite impossible to rid my mind of the Nice carnage – or stop wondering how they would react if armed soldiers were patrolling, instead of tit-helmeted, emphatically unarmed police.

I stepped into the Royal Horticultural Society marquee, and there they were: the entire cast of our end-of-the-pier-show politics, in vegetable-sculpture form and arrayed for judging. There was Jeremy Corbyn (or “Cornbin”) made out of corncobs – and Boris Johnson in the form of a beetroot, being stabbed in the back by a beetroot Michael Gove. And over there was Johnson again, this time rendered in cabbage. The veggie politicians were the big draw, Brixtonians standing six-deep around them, iPhones aloft.

The animal (as opposed to the vegetable) Johnson has begun his diplomatic rounds this week, his first démarches as tasteless and anodyne as cucumber. No British abandonment of friends after Brexit . . . Coordinated response to terror threat . . . Call for Erdogan to be restrained in response to failed coup . . . Blah-blah, whiff-whaff-waffle . . . Even someone as gaffe-prone as he can manage these simple lines, but I very much doubt he will be able to produce rhetorical flourishes as powerful as his hero’s. In The Churchill Factor: How One Man Made History, Johnson writes of Winnie overcoming “his stammer and his depression and his ­appalling father to become the greatest living Englishman”. Well, I’ve no idea if Bojo suffers from depression now but he soon will if he cleaves to this role model. His Churchill-worship (like so many others’) hinges on his belief that, without Churchill as war leader, Britain would have been ground beneath the Nazi jackboot. It may well be that, with his contribution to the Brexit campaign, Johnson now feels he, too, has wrested our national destiny from the slavering jaws of contingency.

Of course the differences between the two politicians are far more significant: Johnson’s genius – such as it is – lies in his intuitive understanding that politics, in our intensely mediatised and entirely commoditised era, is best conceived of as a series of spectacles or stunts: nowadays you can fool most of the people, most of the time. This is not a view you can imagine associating with Churchill, who, when his Gallipoli stratagem went disastrously wrong, exiled himself, rifle in hand, to the trenches. No, the French people Johnson both resembles and has an affinity for are the ones caught up in the virtual reality of Le Fantôme – rather than those patrolling the real and increasingly mean streets without. 

Will Self is an author and journalist. His books include Umbrella, Shark, The Book of Dave and The Butt. He writes the Madness of Crowds and Real Meals columns for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 21 July 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The English Revolt