1,000 people join Facebook’s ‘Get Gary Glitter Out Of Herne Bay’ gang
A Facebook group has seen more than 1,000 people joining it after it was set up to banish pop paedophile Gary Glitter from their town after he was spotted drinking in a seaside pub.
Glitter, 64, has according to residents in Herne Bay, Kent, been sighted several times around the town, and it has also been speculated that he is looking to set up home in the area.
The group, called Get Gary Glitter Out Of Herne Bay, claims the former glam rock star walked into a pub with a female friend, where he had a pint.
“He had a shaved head and a grey goatee and was with a woman,” the Daily Star quoted a regular at the Bun Penny pub, who did not want to be named, as saying.
“We were taking the mickey out of him but didn’t for a second think he might be the real Gary Glitter.
“But then we got to thinking and heard that other people had seen him in the area and we put two and two together.
“Come to think of it, it really did look just like him.
“If I’d known at the time I’d have asked him to politely get out of the pub.
“We don’t want his sort around here,” he stated.
Another drinker, father-of-eight Shane Lee, said: “He’s a filthy pervert; wherever he is no children are safe.”
Kent Police have issued a statement to calm tensions in the town.
“Protecting the residents of Kent remains paramount to Kent Police,” detective Chief Inspector Paul Fotheringham, from the force’s public protection unit, said.
“We work closely to monitor the behaviour of registered sex offenders in the county to minimise any risk to the public that may exist.
“We will also liaise with other forces when offenders move out of the policing area of Kent.
“We will not discuss any details about named registered sex offenders, which extends to confirming or denying speculation about where they may live,” he added. (ANI)
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Gary Glitter rumours spark panic in Midland parish
Apr 5 2009 by Tony Larner, Sunday Mercury
“FOR the last time,” whimpered the trussed, trembling figure in the back of the Transit, “I’m not Gary Glitter.”
I grabbed the burning torch from Colin and shone it in our victim’s face. “She’s right,” I sighed. “Wrong gender.”
The van screeched to a halt and I picked apart the maze of knots.
“I’m sorry,” I muttered by way of limp apology, “but if you will go round wearing shoulder pads…”
Our tiny parish has been in something of a tiz following Chinese whispers that the shamed former glam rock star has set up sticks here.
Now no-one with nine-inch stacked silver shoes, four-feet-wide shoulder pads and gold dust in their raven wigs is safe. I’ve been unable to venture out for a fortnight.
“I have absolutely no idea how this ridiculous rumour started,” said PC Dixon during a hastily convened meeting at the parish assembly rooms, “but it is extremely unhelpful.
“Gary Glitter does not, and never has, resided in this parish. And may I take this opportunity to warn those individuals who flung pig manure at five members of the public who made the mistake of visiting our village while sporting goatee beards, that such vigilantism is a criminal offence.”
“What about Bin Laden?” bellowed one angry resident.
“Bin Laden?” queried the puzzled country bobby.
“He worked in a potato field in this parish for two months last year.
“That,” added the villager grandly, “is a statement of fact.”
PC Dixon slipped silently from the podium as those gathered argued over how many Nazi war criminals had found bolt-holes here.
“No, no, no,” trilled 82-year-old Mrs Jervis above the angry exchanges, “not Adolf Hitler himself, but most definitely his cousin, Dwayne.”
The rumour-mill has had such an effect our local rag has been moved to run a ‘Gary Glitter doesn’t live here’ front page exclusive. They even sent a hack to grill the Drum and Monkey’s drinkers.
“If it’s a joke, it’s in extremely poor taste,” said Colin, as the reporter feverishly scribbled notes. “It means anyone who looks remotely like Gary Glitter is at risk.”
“And how many times have you suffered violence?” asked the journalist, seemingly transfixed by Colin’s chest wig.
“I’m lucky – I’ve only been kicked on the shins 52 times since Tuesday.”
“Ask yourself this,” I ventured, “wouldn’t Gary Glitter have markedly changed his appearance?”
Colin tapped my leg and whispered: “Don’t say that – we’ll all be suspects.”
‘‘And he wouldn’t,” I added, “be calling himself Gary Glitter.”
“That’s right,” nodded Colin, “he’d be using his real name, Gareth.”
“What,” probed the hack, leaving the more difficult questions until last, “would you do if Gary Glitter walked in here tonight?”
“Ask him to open the school fete, probably,” interrupted Bernard, the village simpleton. We gasped and told him, in no uncertain terms, that is a non-starter.
“You’re right,” conceded Bernard, “we’ve already booked Sid Little.”
Such is the paranoia, a petition has been launched on Facebook, asking Gary Glitter to leave or, if he’s not here, not to come. Or if he did come, but went, not to tell anyone.
We think it might hit attendances at the Allotment Society’s home produce show. We’ve also set up a Neighbourhood Glitter Watch, which is like Neighbourhood Watch, but members are more sparkly.
They approach newcomers and shriek, “Do you want to be in my gang?” If the suspects respond with a hearty, “my gang, my gang,” they are pelted with turnips and chased out of the parish.
The parish council has decided it can stay silent no longer. At last week’s meeting, the Major boomed: “This is an extremely turbulent year for our community.
“I can assure you there are much bigger issues – issues that will become apparent in the fullness of time – than worthless speculation over whether Gary Glitter does, or does not, reside here.”
“I knew it,” shouted Colin. “That WAS Michael Jackson buying roe and chips.”
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