We believe that our critics were in part correct when advising us that we overestimated the length of the long Piccadilly carriages in terms of metres when reporting our experiment. We were not able to measure the length of the carriages during the course of our experiment. They may be deceptive in length but again we must advise that they are very long. Imagine an ordinary metro carriage, and double its length.
People have been pointing out to us that twenty five metres sounds much shorter than it actually measures.
For the sake of argument and to prove we are correct we have reduced out guesstimate of the length of the long Piccadilly line carriages to a very conservative 25 metres. This is for the calculation, which we print at the base of the page.
This is Finsbury Park. Change here, for the Victoria Line and National Rail Services. This is a Piccadilly Line train to Heathrow terminals 1, 2, 3 and 5.
Our experiment.
We spent Saturday investigating Rachel North's claim to have mounted the Piccadilly Line tube train carriage 1. which she claims to have mounted at Finsbury Park. Rachel claims that she mounted the train that was bombed by Germaine Lindsay on carriage 1. at Finsbury Park and remained on carriage 1. of the train. Carriage 1. was bombed by Germaine Lindsay between Kings Cross and Russel Square.
Her story: she bought a magazine at a little magazine stall and was engrossed in reading an article that she had written about a rape that she claims she was subjected to in the said article. She descended the steps, passed through the booths, passed through the corridor, descended and headed towards the platforms where the trains that head to King's Cross stop. There are two long platforms at Finsbury Park that receive trains headed towards Kings Cross. Platforms 3 and 4. Both these long platforms receive trains that are headed 'Southbound'. One platform takes the Piccadilly Line trains, which contain the very long carriages we earlier observed, about twenty five metres in length, and the other takes the Victoria Line trains, which contain the shorter carriages ( about half as long) that most people are used to taking.
The platforms run parallel and you can cross from one platform to the other via a small twenty metre long passage.
Rachel boarded the Piccadilly line tube on one of the trains that contains the very long carriages.
Rachel states that she waited for two trains to go past while she sat reading he article she'd written in a magazine about her rape claim. ( Which she broadcasts). So CCTV for July 7 will have picked her up for sure. She tells us that this is because the two trains that went past were full. If she saw that she will have had to have wandered up and down the station platform so we can conclude that she was about in the middle of the platform when the train turned up that was later boarded by Germaine Lindsay.
Rachel once stated that she 'usually gets the middle carriage' but on July 7 she changed her mind, because it was so crowded, and made her way up to carriage 1. By our observations, her 'middle carriage' will probably have been carriage 4. She states that on July 7th, she attempted to enter carriage 4. in the usual way, discovered it was too crowded, and made her way up the platform where she boarded carriage 1. Rachel does not say that she made any effort to enter any of the other carriages between 4 and 1, and we regard her statement as suspicious. ( Why would she run to carriage 1. ? ) If the middle carriages are too crowded you try the others, you don't suddenly break your routine and run to carriage 1. at the top of the train without thinking about trying any of the others.
There are four benches on the platform where Rachel stood. The second one from the top is near the centre of the platform. It is easily accessed and close beside the platform entrance.
The Piccadilly line tube trains contain seven long carriages about forty metres in length. Carriage 4. rests just in front of the bench at the middle of the platform.
During the course of our experiment we observed ten trains arrive. Each of these was a Piccadilly line Southbound and destined to pass through Kings Cross and Russel Square. For each train, we followed the movements that Rachel North describes in her published evidence ( blog and other media outlets) in order to test the veracity of her claims.
The trains stop very briefly. On some occasions, the driver almost wasn't interested in picking anyone up at all. You have have to run, and push your way onto the train carriages. (This is standard for every metro in every country.)
Each of us on the experiment walked to carriage 4, delayed a short while, the time it would take to try to make your way through commuters on a very busy platform and get on a train carriage, fight to get on, and give up. We then turned about, and walked up towards carriage 1. which was situated on the platform right at the top beside the tunnel opening.
We walked at a reasonable pace. Giving Rachel the benefit of the doubt, ( always a very difficult thing to do when conducting any experiment relating to her claims) we guesstimated that she might have pushed and fought her way through the busy rush hour platform that she describes at a fast rate in order to make her way up to carriage 1. We considered, then, that walking at a reasonable pace would reflect her July 7 circumstance, time-wise.
Seven times in ten, you get to the bottom end of carriage 2. ( eighty metres away from the top of carriage 1.) before you hear 'Stand clear, of the closing doors. 'Stand clear, of the closing doors'. 'bee-p bee-p bee-p bee-p bee-p.' and the doors close.
Try it. We are interested in people testing our experiments and our claims for themselves.
Seven times in ten, you do not get any nearer than the near end of carriage 2 before the doors close. It was very interesting to observe the difference between the platform reality and Rachel's much promoted story.
Once in ten there are unusual variables at work such as the train stopping longer for some test or other, or to accommodate other trains on the network. This is the exception. (On these occasions it is just possible to make it to carriage 1 if you run at a pace and don't try to enter the other carriages. But you have to go fast. Rachel does not indicate any occurrence such as a train being delayed. It is unlikely at rush hour).
Three times in ten you do not get anywhere near as far as carriage 2. before the doors close and the train is off.
We observed that rush hour makes no difference to the amount of time the trains stop at the station. This makes enough sense; there is a train network to run that can't depend on different commuters' timetables. This explains the frantic rush and crush whenever the trains come. (We also observed on a separate occasion that there are occasions early evening when the trains tend to stop for a little longer but this is irrelevant).
Rachel states that she boarded carriage 1 at rush hour in the morning. She states that the station was frantically busy with commuters to the point that carriage 4 couldn't accommodate her. She suggests that she tried carriage 4. then made her way up to carriage 1. as an exception. She doesn't suggest that the train stopped for any unusual length of time. She says that she was engrossed in reading a magazine article which she'd written about herself which we estimate would in fact have slowed her down considerably. (The magazine stand where she bought her own article is in the picture at the top of the page.)
From this experiment alone we conclude that it is highly improbable that Rachel mounted carriage 1 bombed by Germaine Lindsay in the manner she describes, at Finsbury Park.
A picture of Finsbury Park platform where Rachel North claims she mounted carriage 1. of the train bombed by Germaine Lindsay. Carriage 1. is always situated just before the tunnel entrance. There is a view here of the space taken by one and a half carriages out of the seven that make up the train. So Rachel as you can see will have had quite a walk in rush hour to get to the top of carriage 1. from carriage 4. in the space of less than one minute average- sometimes about thirty seconds. ( She claims that she entered carriage 1. via the door closest to the driver and then made her way to a space right beside the driver.)
It is interesting to note that Germaine Lindsay made his way to carriage 1. ( on another platform at a later point in this train's journey) directly. He wasted no time at all and went straight to the top carriage, by design. He entered the long carriage by the middle doors, and stayed put. We conclude that he must have entered the platform he used via an arch close by carriage 1.
We disagree with an earlier contributor who suggested that people could have made their way along the little ledges of the train in the wider part of the tunnel where the train apparently stopped. There are no little ledges attached to train carriages except where they are attached to the part beneath the sliding doors. Passengers who escaped from carriage 4. as reported by one passenger survivor and a barrister who was at the back of the train will have had to fumble their way along the track beside the train.
We see that Rachel is claiming that she usually gets on a train carriage at the middle of the carriage and stays there but that on July 7th she mounted a carriage and made her way to the top of the carriage she mounted which she claims was carriage 1. This is another unusual claim and we dispute the probability. (She probably regretted that claim because at a later point she changed her mind and claimed to be two metres away from the bomber Germaine Lindsay who was at the middle of the train). We suggest that people saw the fact that she was unharmed and unmarked and began to question whether she really was in that carriage and she felt that she had to fabricate a tale about the unusual chance effort she had made to make her way to the top of carriage 1. (which she hoped people would believe was enough distance from a bomb for her to be completely unaffected by it). Later, when her story about surviving a bomb unmarked had gained enough movement, she clearly changed her claim and said that she was two metres away from Lindsay when the bomb went off.
If the carriage is 25 metres long, then half the carriage is 12.5 metres, which is no less than 41 feet. Rachel, by her first published account, was 41 feet away from Lindsay when the bomb went off at the centre of the carriage. ( Right near the driver). She later states that she was a mere 7 feet away from Lindsay.
We believe that we have demonstrated our point and that the experiment was successful.
43 comments:
You've just screwed up your argument. She says she couldn't get on the first train, another one went by, and got on the the third one, by which time she was at the furthest end of the platform where it is historically less crowded as it is furthest away from the platform entrances.
She says nothing about escalators and there are none at Finsbury Park.
It's all in her book, which you obviously haven't read, and which contains a lot more detail than her blog.
Taken from the website with extracts of her book.
I thought the book was very moving.
I am furious about this blog.
Here is the extract and as far as I can see you have no idea what you are talking about with your 'experiments'.
Then I was striding through the grey morning streets,
smelling the tang of rain in the air, heading for the kiosk at
Finsbury Park station to buy Marie Claire magazine before
boarding the train to work at my new advertising job in the
West End. The magazine, published that day, contained a story
about me, and I was nervous, anxious, excited to read it. I had
given the interview months ago. I bought a newspaper, and
the magazine, which had a free pair of sunglasses attached to
it. I scanned the cover; it featured Elizabeth Hurley in bikini
pants and a see-through kaftan with her nipples airbrushed
out. My piece was not mentioned in the cover lines. It was
not, after all, a very unusual or unique story.
The newspaper’s triumphant headline was ‘One Sweet
Word: London’ – the news of the Olympic celebrations
yesterday as we had been told it would host the Games in
2012. I paid at the kiosk, and hurried down the stairs, turned
right to the Piccadilly line platform, juggling my handbag,
newspaper, magazine, the reams of unravelling plastic that the
magazine was wrapped in, the blister-packed free sunglasses,
moving with the practised ease of the long-term commuter
through the crush of people.
I’d waited a long time to read this article. Dammit, there
was nowhere to sit down and see what it says. I moved further
up the platform, right to the end of the train. Stood where the
first carriage stops, it was sometimes easier to get on there.
I knew that there was no hope of getting a seat to work, not
today.
I flicked my gaze up to the electronic train announcement
board. Delays. The Piccadilly line, which normally runs a
train every minute or so at rush hour, was running a terrible
service, with trains every seven or eight minutes. ‘Fire at
Caledonian Road,’ said the tannoy. ‘There’s so many flipping
people trying to get onto the platform, they’re still all crowded
up the stairs,’ said the woman in front of me to her friend. ‘If
it gets any more crowded they’re going to have to close the
station.’ Her friend sighed, and swore. I briefly contemplated
shoving my way back down the platform and taking the other
train, but there were hundreds of people going the other way,
and for all I knew, it was just as bad on the Victoria line.
It had gone half past eight. I was going to be late; we all
were. People were huffing and sighing, irritated, the euphoria
or shock of London winning the Olympic hosting bid on their
newspaper pages diminished by the chaos of yet another fight
to get to work on time on London’s creakingly overstretched
public transport system. A man next to me remarked to nobody
in particular, ‘How the bloody hell are we going to manage
the Olympics when we can’t even run the trains on time?’ He
was breaking the ‘Don’t Talk To Strangers’ rule of the London
Underground user so I ignored him. So did everyone else. I
spied a space on the platform bench behind me. I sat down
quickly, opened the magazine, scanned the contents page.
There it was, the article, told in the first person, though I
wasn’t allowed to write it up myself. There was my picture,
partially obscured to protect my identity, as is usual with this sort of story. A few hundred words on glossy paper, swimming
in front of me as my eyes teared up, and my heart started to
beat faster. The platform, the crush of people, and the noise of
the late train finally arriving faded away, as I started to read
the story of my almost-death.
It was hard to read, because as I read it, I was reliving
it all again. My heart was beating faster, and my breathing
was shallow. I started a clammy sweat. I needed to compose
myself, needed to get on the train, to make it into work and sit
at my desk normally, without this embarrassing shuddering
reaction. I glanced up, concentrating on getting my breathing
back to normal. Another train had just pulled in, and people
were pushing themselves onto it. I could have squeezed on
too, but I was worried that I was now in the early stages of
a panic attack, and so I stayed on the bench. The tube doors
hissed closed. The train pulled away. I got up, and moved
towards the edge of the platform, ready for the next train. I
knew I had to get on it, however crowded it might have been.
I was going to be very late, and I had been in my job only
six weeks. I was still on probation. I didn’t want to get into
trouble.
When the next tube came along, I was ready. I started to
get on at the middle set of doors of the first carriage. I put my
foot on the train, but at the last second I stepped back and
decided to go a few metres further up, to board at the first set
of doors, the very front of the train, where I thought I might
have a little more space. I wanted to read that article again,
more calmly this time. I wanted to get the fear and adrenaline
out of my system, and to try instead to feel the pride, the
pleasure that I’d survived. Because I was proud of it; proud
that I was still here to tell my story, proud that the man who
attacked me was now locked up, and couldn’t hurt anyone
else. I got onto the train and stood by the yellow pole in the
centre of the standing area by the first set of doors. I held the
pole with my right hand, my new blue handbag over my left
shoulder, newspaper now shoved into the bag, holding the
folded magazine in my left hand, worrying whether anyone
else would read it over my shoulder and recognise me in the
accompanying photo. But of course they wouldn’t, nobody
makes eye contact with their fellow passengers or speaks
to them on the London Underground. It is the only way to
maintain your composure in such crowded conditions, to
pretend that all the other people don’t exist.
We were off. This time it was easier for me to read my story.
The train stopped at Arsenal, Holloway Road, Caledonian
Road, with more and more people getting on at each stop.
This is the most crowded train I have ever been on, I thought, in
over a dozen years of making this journey in from North London
on the Piccadilly line. I bet I could lift my feet up off the floor
and not fall over; I am wedged in so tight.
Now we were at King’s Cross, the doors slid open, people
were pushing to get out, people were pushing to get in, I was
being pushed away from the pole, back towards the centre
of the carriage, I looked out through the open doors at the
crowds. My God, the platform is heaving here, six- or sevendeep,
with fed-up commuters, all trying to stuff themselves into
this delayed train. There is no way any more people can fit into
this carriage, but still they come. I can’t wait to escape from this
sweating, irritable crush of humanity.
Somewhere behind me, pushing onto my carriage, boarding through the middle set of doors, unremarkable among all the
commuters, was a young Jamaican-born British man with a
rucksack. His rucksack contained ten pounds of explosives.
He had travelled to London, rising early, leaving his pregnant
wife and baby to join three friends at Luton station. The
group of men had said goodbye to each other, hugged each
other, happy, almost euphoric as they split up to continue
their journeys. July 7th was a special day for this man and
his friends. They had chosen to leave this world and to enter
Paradise. And Germaine Lindsay, nineteen years old, the
man climbing through the doors, pushing onto the train with
the rest of the crowd, had chosen this rush-hour morning at
King’s Cross station, this train, and this carriage to die.
I didn’t know this, of course; none of us knew what was
about to happen, then. Maybe, somewhere there was a
whisper of intelligence on the plot; maybe someone official
came across this young man and assessed him as a low risk,
made the judgement that he was no one worthy of special
attention. Perhaps there were warnings somewhere, clues
about what he and his friends wanted to do. A file on him,
intelligence chatter, rumours, emails, a history of looking at
the wrong websites, watching the wrong DVDs, talking to the
wrong people... Something that could have warned us of the
bomb in his bag and the hatred in his heart and the chaos and
carnage he was moments away from unleashing. Whatever
was known, it wasn’t enough to stop him, and so he, like
hundreds of others, was on board this overcrowded train.
The driver waited at King’s Cross for several minutes,
longer than usual, to allow as many people to scramble off
and push on as possible. People who didn’t make it and who
were left on the platform looked angrily through the windows
at us as the doors closed. The platform tannoy warned: ‘This
train is about to depart.’
Twenty-six people, and the bomber, had a few minutes left
to live.
I found that I was crushed against another young woman.
For a moment we were locked chest to chest in an intimate
hug. We apologised to each other. My heart was beating fast
and my body was still in a state of adrenalised fight-or-flight
readiness, but there was nowhere to flee to. The irritation in
the air was palpable, people uncomfortably pressed into each
other, backs, elbows, bags, rucksacks.
The last person to board was a smiling black woman
who was giggling in disbelief at the crush as she squeezed
her curvaceous figure through the closing doors. Her warm
humour defused the tension. The train started to move. I took
a deep breath. Three more stops to go. I tried to compose
myself for a busy day at work. I unclenched my fists. It was
impossible to read anymore, all I could do was lift up my
head and concentrate on breathing in and out to fight the
claustrophobia, and read the adverts on the walls of the train.
And then I felt rather than heard an explosion; it was as if
I had been punched violently in both ears. The world went as
black as if I had been plunged deep underwater. Everything
had changed in a heartbeat. And the thought flashed through
me. ‘Not again. Not bloody again.’
...which contain the very long carriages we earlier observed, about eighty metres in length...
Would you be so kind as to explain how the hell an eighty meter long carriage could get around the bends in a narrow tube tunnel?
Thank you
Commenter 1. We know that there are no escalators at Finsbury park.
Commenter 2.
By the time Rachel wrote her book, she had had time to adapt her evidence and we note that she does it again, in the book extract that you quote.
In her first piece of 'evidence' she says that she tried to get onto carriage 4. then made her way up the platform to carriage 1. it is clear. She wrote the book after she'd had time to think about her mistaken claims. We are not particularly interested in late in the day claims and alterations, except that they clearly demonstrate Rachel's need for a humungus and elaborate soap opera.
Commenter 3. Go and check the carriages. Your comment is a joke. How by your reasoning could trains get around the tube lines and carry carriages at all? Go check the carriages on the Piccadilly line. they are around forty metres in length.
another visit from the arch scammer......
There are incredible dramatic outbursts in that passage quoted from her book. She is so fixated by herself. Instead of 'why my, why me, again?' She could be asking 'Why them, the people who died, why them?'
raachel threatens to 'publish and damn' everyone who spies a flaw in her ever changing claims on which she probably receives advice from Max Clifford....
http://z13.invisionfree.com/julyseventh/index.php?showtopic=779
and a photo of an obviously genuine claimant
http://www.mailonsunday.co.uk/news/article-451787/Grieving-families-7-7-ask-Why-hearing-truth.html
Rachael may have more than one problem with this one:
"Rachel North didn’t plan to be a writer. Two years ago, she was an advertising executive from Highbury.
But on 7 July 2005, commuting from Finsbury Park to Covent Garden, her Piccadilly Line train was bombed as it pulled out of King’s Cross station.
But where others might attempt to forget the experience, for the last two years North has been reliving her trauma, first writing about the bombings on her blog, and now publishing a book, Out of the Tunnel, which documents her battle through the post-traumatic stress she suffered.
“I do want to move on, but I think there’s an acceptance that I’m always going to be the bomb girl,” she says.
“I did write about it in the first place; and I suppose what I’ve been through is quite an unusual story.”
“Unusual” is something of an understatement. In 2003, North was brutally raped and left for dead in her own home by an intruder.
On 7 July 2005, she was reading an account of her rape in Marie Claire on the train to work – the most crowded she says she’d ever seen – when Germaine Lindsay detonated his bomb just seven feet away from her.
"We’d just pulled out of King’s Cross, then it was like being jumped on from behind by a big bear, and everything went black,” she says.
“It was like I’d been punched in the ears. One minute you’re on the train reading your magazine, and the next you’re on the floor, bodies wriggling on top of you, and you can’t breathe. And you’re not breathing air; you’re breathing smoke mixed with chemicals and grit. Your tongue dries, you feel like you’re drowning.”
Not only is she now saying that she was bang in the niddle of the carriage that got blown up but she is claiming that here were a heap of bodies on yop of her!
She says you feel like you're drowning. It felt like a big bear.
The place beside the driver where she survived has completely disappeared.
Please, please Rachael, its time to stop your insufferable rubbish.
When is Rachael going to answer questions?
We hadn't seen Rachel's claim to have been hauled out from underneath a heap of bodies. That dramatically differs from her first account and can only be interpreted as a blatant lie.
Is there a professional out there who can confirm that her claim in this regard is the rubbish it purports to be?
'bodies wriggling on top of you'
suggests that the bodies were alive. Dead bodies don't wriggle. So it would seem that she fell over and people fell on top of her.
Then they got up and left the train.
I know you won't publish this but do try and read what is in front of your eyes
'Not only is she now saying that she was bang in the niddle of the carriage that got blown up but she is claiming that here were a heap of bodies on yop of her!'
No.
She says 7 feet away ( tallies with other accounts) and bodies wriggling, meaning alive, meaning people who were on the train who had fallen over, who in the dark were bodies wriggling on top of her.
TRY AND READ THE WORDS.
It helps.
I'm a professional and I can confirm that bodies who are alive wriggle and dead bodies don't. As she says the bodies were wriggling I can say as a professional that she is not referring to dead bodies but people who are alive and who have fallen on top of each other in the dark.
Happy?
You can check with any professional; they will confirm that dead bodies do not wriggle and people referring to wriggling bodies are not referring to dead people.
Hope that helps
No one has said that she was referring to dead bodies. She is making out that a lot of bodies were lying on top of her. We will ignore the shameful aspect of your heartless comment. We find it incredible that Rachel could be so heartless. Bodies in that condition are obviously very badly wounded. It appears to be another desperate attempt to put herself at the centre of the carriage to others cost.
We know that she was not at the centre of that carriage, she told us so herself and then she changed her mind and said she was.
If rachel and her supporter club and going to leave ignorant comments it will be best to stop them going through
disgusting
"The Piccadilly line tube trains contain seven long carriages about forty metres in length."
7 x 40 = 280
Are you seriously saying that Finsbury Park station platform is 280 meters long?
That's about right. Go check our claims instead of posing.
Anon asks: 'When is Rachael going to answer questions?'
The arch-scammer has avoided answering any real questions for three years, always resorting to her natural attack dog style of defence.
If there was anything left of independent journalism in the UK, she would have been exposed aeons ago.
It is extremely unlikely that Rachel/Badger Kitten will post a link to this discussion on either her blog or on the Urban 75 forum ... just in case the issue gets picked up by a journalist who has yet to be completely subjugated by the fourth estate.
280 Metre (m) = 0.173 983 934 Mile
Piccadilly line trains are 107.6 metres long.
The platform is not 280m long. It is 107 metres long.
Tube carriages are not 40 m long (or 80m long). They are about 16 metres long.
The pictures you have used to illustrate are taken from the web and are not your own images.One id from Wikipedia.
From thsi evidence I conclude that you were never at Finsbury Park station.Your first post has an escalator there and carriages 80m long. You changed it.
Regards
Tubeman
For Pete's sake.
Tubeman you are entirely incorrect in every respect. The tube carriages ON THE PICCADILLY LINE are as long as we describe. Exactly. They are TWICE AS LONG AS THE OTHERS.
The platform at Finsbury Park is as we describe it. It is very long.
No, we did not bring out a wooden metre measure and rigorously tape it from one end to other for the length of the whole station. One of our conributors measures about a metre and a half so she could have done a certain number of somersaults without drawing too much attention to herself BUT as it happens we decided to use an experienced guess.
We are very open to people verifying our experiments for themselves.
Unless you have something useful or informative to contribute we suggest you get yourself somewhere else.
Tube carriages tubeman are not 16 m long on the Piccadilly line. They may be 32 metres: granted. But I think the blog has the point.
http://bp0.blogger.com/_Z1JIB3_MBuA/SG9hNoEpkUI/AAAAAAAAABE/8aCuOBxf1Yg/s1600-h/
longtubetraincarriage.jpg
We provide a link to a picture of HALF the tube carriage on the Piccadilly line. Now, the whole carriage: 40 metres or 16 metres?
We accept that 32 metres is a possibility. We didn't take a measuring rod and go up and down for obvious reasons.
32 metres looks right to me.
Which means that If Rachel was beside the driver when the bomb went off then she was about 13-14 metres away from Lindsay so that's about 40 feet away from the bomb.
Not seven.
Instead of some people referring us to claims being made about tube train lengths on the Internet in order to feel as if they have noticed something clever we advise people to evaluate using train pictures that they see, or better still, to get down there and check the experiment out. We have reported what we saw.
Tubeman the information you are using is outdated and refers to the old trains.
Thanks
I think the irrelevant bell should sound at this station.
You can't expect nitc bloggers to creep along the platform with a tape measure in the particular case and it's by the by. Looking at the pictures of the carriages and that platform it looks as if Rachel somehow moved a long way from the top of the carriage where she was beside the driver towards Lindsay who was at the centre to get herself two metres away from the bomb when it blasted.
The blog has it.
Rachel has enlisted Blairwatch and her other Internet dwarves and invited them to invade your blogosphere and this is a clear indication of her heightened sense of personal desperation.
Instead of acknowledging that there are mounting questions to answer she "disappears" from her blog and creates the impresssion that she can stand the terrible slur no more.
She knows she is defeated and cannot answer the challenge. Instead, like an unstable child, she jumps about on a futile quest to silence your questions and suddenly, for some incomprehensible reason, buries her head in a bucket full of water.
Which is why we have not had a peep out of her for days.
She last blogged on Saturday. Could it be that she is up to something?
Perhaps she has killed herself?
That would be good news.
Rachel wouldn't do that without organising a state funeral first.
That is Blairwatch trying to make you look harsh. The only reality you need fear is poor Miff, her cat, being kicked down the stairs while she throws the crockery around.
When she tells Max Clifford that she's going to throw herself off a bridge we can be sure that she's going to do it.
I suggest you ignore it and get on.
Calm down please. Commenters impersonating the Queen and George Bush shouting for her head and crying 'come on nuke the bitch! let's roll!'
Try to behave.
Poor Miff has suffered enough and so, probably, has Max Clifford.
It looks like the Piccadilly Line is still currently using the 1973 rolling stock. Please check this link.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/London_Underground_rolling_stock
I noticed you didn't publish my last comment that was of great concern.
Anonymous asked: She last blogged on Saturday. Could it be that she is up to something?
Check out the private Plastic surgery clinics in the London area; she knows she's going to have to produce a scar on that wrist sooner or later!
EXCELLENT.
Concerned scientist,
The 1973 rolling stock is not still in use. We are quite sure about that.
Ask around, there are Metro assistants and transport police who will help guide you towards further information.
Some sort of Hiroshma bomb on Rachel's web maniacs?
Well done.
You have proved that Rachel is capable of big lies and gratuitous hype.
Have you proved that she was absolutely not in the carriage beside the driver?
It is very likely that Rachel was never in that carriage.
The thing that will entirely resolve the matter is the CCTV from Finsbury Park for July 7.
We call on the authorities to release the evidence.
Bit of a rough metaphor.
Not really. Rachel uses it on the Richard and Judy film. ' I was afraid to drop a bomb on them'.
We are interested in inquiry into Rachel's obvious lies.
Rachel is Emperor Hirohito. BlairWatch are going to love that.
We are not particularly interested in that discussion.
Blairwatch writes: '... Rachel North is one of Britain's most thoughtful and insightful commentators on terrorism and civil liberties ...'
Apparently we all live in an alternate reality to the one where Rachel North is an 'insightful' Superhero.
Sadly, I seemed to have parachuted into the reality where she is better described as 'thoughtless & spiteful'.
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