In January 2024, I was sent on my seventh job of the day to arrest a masked offender who had allegedly assaulted an elderly man and was fleeing the scene of another crime involving a boy of 14. Staff at a nearby McDonald's were so concerned by his behaviour they had locked their doors for safety I could have signed off and gone home - it was the end of an 11-hour shift - but when no one on the oncoming shift stepped up, I did what I've always done: I took the call. As I moved to arrest the suspect, he fought back. We went to the ground together.
Only once he was restrained did a double-ended knife fall from his waistband - the kind of weapon that explains exactly why he was so determined to fight or flee. It wasn't my finest hour. I panicked as his friends began to encircle me. I used language that wasn't professional and I regret that. But in the heat of the moment I was following my instinct as a police officer to keep people safe.
There were no injuries, no public complaint, yet Dorset Police told me after nearly a decade of service that I had breached professional standards and had to leave the force - because when I arrested the suspect I "failed to treat him with courtesy and respect". My name is now all over the media, and my family - my wife Denise and our three daughters - face an upheaval we never imagined. I can't help but feel a target has been put on my back.
The sense of betrayal runs deep. Like every officer, I accepted the risks: being assaulted, running toward danger, working weekends and nights. But I never expected to be punished by my own force for doing exactly what I was trained - and trusted - to do. That betrayal very nearly broke me. But then something remarkable happened. People - strangers, friends, ex-colleagues - reached out.
They shared their outrage, their support and their kindness. A GoFundMe page was set up and donations began pouring in. Suddenly, in the chaos, I felt like I wasn't alone. I can't put into words how much that support has meant to me and to my family. The messages and generosity have lifted us up when we were at our lowest.
This money doesn't just keep the lights on - it gives us breathing room. It means I don't have to send off CVs while my name is plastered all over the media. It means my girls don't have to see their dad broken. It's taken enough of the pressure off so we can start putting the pieces back together. And I will never forget what people have done.
Every single donation and every message has helped more than anyone can know. And it's given me the courage to keep going - because this is no longer just about me. Since speaking out, I've been inundated with messages from officers who have gone through the same thing - decisions made under pressure, later ripped apart by panels with the benefit of hindsight. Men and women punished for doing what they were trained to do.
This is the reality: cops afraid to act. Where hesitation is replacing instinct. Where every use of force is a potential career-ending gamble. We are being told to intervene but punished if our actions don't look tidy afterwards. That's not policing. That's theatre.
And it's not just officers who will suffer. The public will too - through slower responses, hesitant decisions and a fear that erodes confidence. When officers are scared to act everyone is at risk. We need to trust our frontline. That doesn't mean giving officers free rein. It means recognising that split-second decisions can't be judged like courtroom cross examinations. It means supporting officers when they act in good faith - not throwing them under the bus.
As a proud officer. I believed in what the badge stood for. I still do. But I refuse to stay silent while others face what I've gone through - and while the job is slowly hollowed out by fear and bureaucracy. So I'm speaking up. For myself, for Denise and our girls, and for every officer still on the job, wondering if their next shift might be their last. And to everyone who's stood by us - thank you. You've given me a voice, a reason to keep fighting, and the knowledge that what happened to me matters. That it struck a chord with the people I served. Now, we need to make sure it leads to change.
