Cyber Bullying in a Social Group – A Cautionary Tale

cyber, bullying, social, plague, phenomenon, group, class, children

Cyber Bullying happens in a social context

‘I’ll laugh as I watch you die you bitch’  

A class of girls in an exclusive primary school all know that one of their group is being cyber bullied. At first the taunts are relatively tame, standard school yard stuff, but then it starts to escalate.

Eventually the little girl on the receiving end has to take a break from school due to stress.

The morning after the victim disappears from class a student (Wendy X) is summoned to the principal’s office. Rumours immediately ripple through the group: ‘Wendy X is the cyber bully, Wendy X is the cyber bully!’

Later that day Wendy X starts to receive threatening messages on her Facebook page. Not only that but Wendy Y starts to get them as well!  Justice and retribution are meted out by the righteous peers and parents to both the perpetrator and a classmate with a similar name.

But wait – Wendy X went to see the principal because… her grandmother had just passed away!



Tom V Jack – Cruise V Reacher – 6’5″ V 5’7″ – 113.5 Kg’s V 66.8 Kg’s ….


Tonight we have a Book Boxer special event, a non-championship bout featuring two well-known characters rather than two books. Recently Tom Cruise has been confirmed to play Jack Reacher in a movie version of Lee Child’s book ‘One Shot’. Here we match them up head to head to see if Cruise can ‘aim up’ and consider himself a match for Jack Reacher. While no Boxing authority in their right mind would authorise this bout we knew that it has the potential to take a substantial amount at the gate (and lets face it that’s what Tom Cruise pretending to be Jack Reacher is all about) so…lets rumble.

In the Red corner standing at 6’5″ and weighing 17 stone 8 pounds, (195.6cm and 113.5kg) the ex military policeman trained by special forces, with many hours combat experience and specialising in unarmed hand to hand combat – Mr Jack Reacher

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The Business Rusch: Watching The Numbers « Kristine Kathryn Rusch

But the thing that surprised even me was this figure: one of the writers mentioned that her friend earned $17,000 in one year on one indie-published book. In the bad old days of traditional publishing, earning 17K in royalties on one book was astonishing if you weren’t a bestseller, especially in some of the genres like sf. It means you earned out your advance and the publisher managed to calculate the royalties to give you $17,000 at 6 or 8 or 10 percent of the cover price.

You sold a lot of books.

However, if you do the math on that $17,000 indie writer, you’ll realize the sales are—in traditional publishing terms—extremely small. For the sake of my math skills, we’ll say that this author earned $5 on each copy of the book she sold over all the various platforms.

That means, in one year, she sold 3,400 books. That’s all.

If you had sold the same 3,400 books in traditional publishing, they probably would cancel your contract. You certainly wouldn’t be earning back any advance. The genre here was romance, so figure a $6.99 cover price which at a charitable 10% of cover means she would have earned $2346 toward her already paid advance on the same 3,400 sales.

Wowza.  That’s a significant difference.

via The Business Rusch: Watching The Numbers « Kristine Kathryn Rusch.

Enter Sandman



 Her neck was tense, her heart beat quickly and her temples pounded. She stretched and rolled and waited. She turned her head sideways, and back. The quiet minutes ticked by. There was no slowing of the pulse, no drifting into delirious fantasy, no slackening of the tension. She picked up the goggles again and looked at the recorder. Sixty five minutes last night, not bad. Not a record, but not bad. She re-set the recorder, slipped out of the last of her underclothing and turned out the light. With the goggles safely over her eyes she lay back and waited.

Dazzling flashes of indigo-orange, curling ribbons of blue. Great masses of green. Yellow, overlayed with crimson. The shapes formed and then melted, rose and then tumbled, swirled and then shot like a star; straight into space. Her breathing started to settle. The tension drained from her neck. Her heartbeat re-gained its steady rhythm. Slowly, imperceptibly, she escaped her own consciousness.  Peace at last. 

 A small light glowed crimson in the darkness and the dreamer stirred. Behind the metal frames, her eyes rolled and flashed in rapid movements, her toes and fingers pulsing with tiny electrical charges. There was a metallic click in the darkness.

‘She’s under.’

‘O.K.’her bedroom door edged open…  


A very good summary of where we are at with the Ebook v pbooksvebooks thing

An American Editor

In a post discussing a twit from author Brent Weeks, Nat Hoffhelder of The Digital Reader wondered, in his blog post “Not All of Us Drink a $4 Coffee, Mr. Weeks,” why publishers aren’t “trying to convert paper book buyers to ebook buyers,” considering that publishers make more money on ebooks than on mass market paperbacks. Setting aside the question of whether publishers make more money on ebooks than on mass market paperbacks, the question is truly piercing: Why aren’t publishers trying to convert readers to ebooks?

We can begin with the proposition that ebooks are clearly the tsunami of the future for reading. It is not that the demand for pbooks will disappear entirely, just that ebooks will become greater than a majority share of the book market. One would think that publishers would want to grab the brass ring early while they can still steer the market.

Under the…

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The Milk Run – Phalabora to Johannesburg with a crazy pilot 1991

The tiny dirt air-strip is deserted and damn hot as I step out of the taxi . A small plane reflects the blistering sun off its wings and fuselage. I can literally see the heat rising in fluid waves off the tarmac behind it. A small building sits at one end of the strip. I walk towards it seeking shade.

The building is an ‘airport’ with two check in counters, seats for passengers and some stairs leading up to the ‘control tower’. The entire place is eerily deserted.  I sit in one of two chairs facing the check-in counters. A poster above the desk reads ‘Look And Save A Life: Terrorist Weapons’. Several life-like cardboard replica’s of  hand grenades, limpet mines, anti-personnel mines and land mines are protruding out of the poster.   I’m curious about the poster and take a photo.

“Ya, if you see any of those on the plane you should tell me!”  A red faced man in a shabby pilots uniform has materialised behind me making me jump. He’s made it back from the pub in time to fly me to Johannesburg.

“Am I likely to?”

“Shit man, this is Phalabora, don’t you know about the history of this flight route?”

“Should I?”

‘There’s an army base here.’  He replies, pointing towards the plane outside.

“ That Cessna out there used to be a DC3 till it got blown out of the sky last year.  Before that it was a Fokker Friendship and before that, another DC3.  They don’t like us out here, they keep trying to blow up our aeroplanes.”  He laughs as if he has made a very funny joke. I smile back grimly wondering about putting my safety in this guys hands.

Time passes slowly in the suffocating heat with this over friendly buffoon trying to make conversation. Suddenly a bus arrives. People are now lining up at the desk and he is distracted by them, joking and calling out their names in Afrikaans. I am dumbfounded, how can he fly this run every day and be so relaxed about it?  The pilot looks over again and senses that his jovial demeanour has not had the comforting effect that it normally does with his passengers.

“Oh come now, there’s nothing to worry about, I promise.  This is a milk run, I promise you. I used to fly Mirages against the Cuban’s in South West Africa. I’ve seen plenty of combat experience and I’m the best pilot North of ‘Joburg’ you know, ask anyone. He threw his arm out to include the few strange looking people milling about the room. “Don’t worry, you’ll be safe with me.”  He winks at the end, the icing on the cake.

Flight time comes around and the room has few more people in it.  The pilots name is Danie (dar-knee), he stands at the door and bids us follow him out to the plane. There seems to be a lot of people for such a small plane. I count heads as Danie struggles with padlock at the gate to the tarmac, twelve all up including the pilot and a five year old.  I already knew that the plane only had ten passenger seats.  On the way out to the plane Danie explains:

“You’re going to sit up with me in the Co-pilots seat and the little one will have to sit on his mothers lap.”

I t was strange that there was no Co-pilot and wondered what I would have to do if Danie had a heart attack or passed out.  With the Cessna packed to the rafters we taxied out to the very end of the runway and got ready for take-off.  Danie left the chocks on and revved the engines.  When he pulled the brakes off we lurched forward and started crawling towards the other end of the strip with engines roaring.  He got the nose up all right but I was worried our wheels might catch the fence at the far end.  A last minute up-draft courtesy of the heat got us off the ground in the nick of time.

The little aeroplane was being tossed around like a toy. Sudden, violent winds flung us upwards and pockets free of air threw us earthwards with equally surprising  timing and force.  I looked over at Danie and noticed that he was not looking as cool and composed as he had on the ground.  In fact, he was flushed, sweating and swearing to himself as he struggled with the joystick.  Every now and then he would glance with alarm out of his side window, craning his neck to see back down the fuselage.  The child on its mother’s knee started bawling in the cabin behind us.

We were at about two thousand feet and climbing but all was not going well.  The plane was still bumping around crazily.  The kid behind us was reaching a crescendo of fear and the noise was starting to grind on my nerves.

“Is there a problem Danie?”

“Shut up, don’t bother me,” he screams.

He glances over his shoulder at the fuselage for the twentieth time and stands the plane on its wing-tip in a steep turn. This followed by deep, screaming dive.  There is silence in the cabin. I start to shit myself as I watch the ground below become larger.

The dive goes through the full three hundred and sixty degrees and finishes, two thousand feet below as the airport tarmac miraculously appears under my nose. In fact, I sense that we are arriving nose first and am overcome with the impulse to pull back on the spare joystick in front of me.  I resist the urge and at the last possible moment Danie pulls back and the wheels slam down. The plane bounces but is well controlled by the combat pilot and we pull up safely. I wipe sweat from my face and take this opportunity to breathe again.

Danie is unbuckling and muttering in Afrikaans.  He jogs across the tarmac to where a group of Bantu people are standing wide-eyed.  Danie grabs one of the men by the ear and drags him back to the fuselage of the plane.  There is a loud exchange in a couple of  different languages and a loud thud that rocks the little plane. At length, Danie returns to the cockpit.

“Blerry kaffir he exclaims, he didn’t shut the cargo bay door, it was flapping open the whole time…come, lets go.”

He fires up the engines and we are off again. This time we clear the fence at the end by feet rather than inches. By the time we reach cruising altitude the turbulence becomes more bearable and I relax a little. A little too much as it happens. The Cessna has no toilet and I’m starting to really bust for a pee. I hang tough and put it to the back of my mind. Don’t be a pussy, I think to myself – focus. Focus, focus, focus, aaaaaaaaagh. By the time we are about half an hour out of Johannesburg I confess my discomfort to Danie.

“You can have a pee out the window if you like,” he laughs. What a great sense of humour that guy had.

I sneak a look over my shoulder at the other passengers. The baby is gazing out of the window in rapture. Nope, that’s not going to happen.

Danie gets on the radio and has a long conversation in Afrikaans punctuated by a few chuckles.

“Don’t worry man,” he tells me after he finishes. “A friend of mine is working in the tower at Jan Smuts today and he’s given me clearance to land on one of the big runways there. I’ll pull over straight away and let you out for a piss on the back wheel.”

“I’m not thrilled about that idea either but then again, its that or pee my pants.”

True to his word, ten minutes later he put us down on runway number one at Jan Smuts international airport in Johannesburg. It felt strange landing on such a large strip of tarmac in such a tiny plane. Danie only put the wheels down about a quarter of the way down the strip and the Cessna used only a fraction of what was left to come to walking pace. He pulled over and popped the cabin door.

“There you go, I told you I’d look after you.”

Stepping out onto the blazing tarmac I took in the huge planes circling above us waiting to land. I walked to the back of the plane and unzipped. Easy now, no performance anxiety please. Finally I relaxed and a steady stream ensued. Halfway through a huge 747 landed on the runway next to us. A huge surge of air buffeted me and covered me in my own spray. I raised my free hand to wave at the bank of windows flashing by. Welcome to Johannesburg people! I should have just peed in my pants.

Why State of Origin is a Joke – Game 3, 2012

State of Origin is a joke and here’s why…

Game 3 – Anyone who’s strapped on a boot knows that was a shepherd. Commentators are payed to smooth these things over but even the channel 9 team had difficulty glossing that one over. King Wally in particular couldn’t resist the truth. (Perhaps a symptom of many who suffer depression?)

Game 1 – We all know that wasn’t a try.

I have just watched game 3 and I am appalled by what I have seen. The penalty count may have looked even on paper but it was designed to. I will just point two things from game 3 that stand out. There are many more from the rest of the Origin series this year that could make the grade.

Okay – why wasn’t Tate sent off in game 3 when Jennings was done for the same thing in game 1 and sent to the bin?

Why was James Tamou’s ‘spill’ considered a strip within 5 yards and 2 minutes of the QLD line on half time?

I could go on but I won’t. If you watch league regularly then you will have enough trouble looking yourself in the eye tomorrow morning as the ref.

Those of you who love rugby league should look away now because this is the sad truth about your game…

Gambling – if you have a muppet calling the odds at the start and at the half time break you should know – this game is rigged – full stop.

Phil Gould – enough said

Forward passes – does this rule really exist or is this part of the ‘bread and circus’ MO from League HQ

Scrums – Ditto – seriously WTF?

Ray Warren – please note the correct pronunciation of ‘controversy’

Oh yes – shoulder charges and tackling in the air – legal or not? make up your mind and stick to that for your own sakes.

Right I think I’m done now.

That is all.

PS – it will be a long time before I sit through another game of league.

Day in the life of a Eurail traveller March 23 1992 – Bordeaux to Portugal

NOT my train

The train had been delayed again so we went to the station café to get breakfast. Like the rest of the town, Bordeux station was old and a little dirty. The café looked unsanitary. Mick only took coffee but I risked the food. The blood-raw burger on baguette tasted great to me. He went green watching me go at the burger and decided to distract himself with a video game. I watched in amusement as an impudent eight year old who had been skulking around the corner gave him a thrashing.We decided to play pinball until it was time to go.

The train was a spanking new TGV, capable of reaching speeds up to three hundred kilometres an hour. Clean, new, sparkling and streamlined, designed for passenger comfort and convenience. We bundled into our seats in a huff of excitement. I fell into conversation with an obliging middle aged man sitting next to me.

“Ho, but this train Is no go to Portugal, this train it is going back to Paris…oui, oui, Paris”

“Oh shit – Mick…”

We fell out of the door as the train began to pull out of the platform. The coach conductor expressing his disdain for us in a typically Gallic way all the way to the door. As the TGV rolled away it revealed another train on the platform behind it, an old rust-bucket, packed to the rafters with Portugese folk. There was no need to say it, the awful reality dawned on us – this was our train to Oporto.

Without wanting to offend any Portugese out there, the people on this train were possibly the most pungent group of people I have ever encountered.  Our tiny cabin had no less than four men who smelt like they had never seen a shower. The men spoke no English and Portugese is not an easy language to understand. The six of us sat and stared at the walls as the train swayed and jolted Southwards. That was until one of four raised the tension and aroma levels by sparking an evil smelling cigarette. He was sitting next to Mick. Mick hates tabacco smoke anyway but the fact the man was sitting directly opposite a non-smoking sign was tantamount to a declaration of war.

I could see my companion was building up a head of steam.  He was on the verge of letting loose with his infamous temper when the compartment door opened and David Boon stepped in.  The train conductor was a dead ringer for the taciturn Tasmanian in height and girth but it was the moustache that really sealed the deal. In addition he had the same air of monosyllabic perserverance as our cricket hero. Boonie glared at the smoker but said nothing. Instead, he turned on me and asked for our tickets and our passport. Instead of simply inspecting and returning them as we expected, he turned and left with them in his possession. We followed him out into the swaying corridor of the old rattler but he was nowhere to be seen. Dismayed, we turned to the grill car for solace.

Boonie had our tickets and passports but we still had our wallets.  The grill car was no less pungent but had one great advantage – beer.  We played poker and drank ourselves into comfortable tolerance of our surroundings. The countryside rolled by as the day slipped into night. As time dragged on, the passengers in the grill car began to filter back to their seats.  We were absorbed in our cards and our beer to the point of catatonic concentration.

We never really noticed the unusually long stop at the ugly little station of Irun. We stayed parked at the station, quietly trying to ignore the somewhat irritating Spanish voice on the station intercom. At length, Michael payed a visit to the toilet, not remarkable in itself, until I hear:

“Um I really think you should come out here mate – oh and bring the beer would you.”

Gone, vanished, absent. We stood on the platform and gazed at the empty void where our train should have been.

A few thoughts passed through my mind about then.

“Where is our train?”

“Where are we?”

“Where are our backpacks?”

“Where are our train tickets?”

“Where are our passports?”

“Where is Boonie?”

We climbed back in to the grill car to contemplate our fate, seconds later the carriage we just stepped on began to move. After a brief glance at each other we dived for the door. With the dogged determination of ancient custom Michael held his beer upright as we hit the platform.  He held it aloft triumphantly claiming as usual to have not spilled a drop. Triumph suddenly dissolved into tragedy as an olive skinned man with green clothes and very big gun appeared yelling in Spanish.  Apparently we weren’t allowed into Spain without passports.

At least we managed to convince him we were Australian and not American as he had originally suspected.  This came at some cost to our dignity, however, since it involved imitating Kangaroo’s and singing ‘Tie me Kangaroo down sport.’  Unimpressed with Mick’s beer carrying ability, he had confiscated it immediately and was now drinking it while we performed for him.  Happily, the guard’s boss was numerate and even better, he realised that the box on wheels I was drawing for him represented a train carriage. Inside the box, we wrote the carriage number and pointing at a nearby chair we wrote our seat numbers.

Half an hour later Boonie was standing in front of us looking very unimpressed. After plenty gesticulating and listening to people in uniforms discuss our fate in two different foreign languages Boonie escorted us back to our train which was sitting a few platforms away.  Somehow our carriage mates had become better smelling. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever been as happy to see a bunch of  smelly people in a confined space.

Want to try a Eurail holiday? try here…

I never met this girl

iCops and Robbers in South Africa

I didn’t write this post and I don’t have an online source to attribute it to. It was sent to me by someone I know very well. The writing style is quite intense and very typically white African. It’s an interesting story and a good reminder to fire up your ‘Find My iPhone/Pad/Macbook’ App if you run an Apple device.

By Marc Tison

I did a whirlwind tour of Gauteng chasing after my iPad in a squad car with cops. If it was not for some good simple smart technology gadgets, the day would never have ended the way it did.

I had checked in at the Lynwood Townlodge and was enjoying a good breakfast with some of my work colleagues, when I suddenly looked up and noticed our two laptop bags were gone from where we had placed them right next to us. I had my iPad and wallet in mine – no laptop. My colleague had his iPad and laptop.

I immediately retrieved my iPhone and activated Find iPhone, which is a really smart Apple App that lets you trace any Apple device including your iPad. The first thing I did was to send a remote PIN block to the iPad. This prevents the iPad from being switched off.  Really important if you want to keep the trace active. The only thing would be thieves can do to stop the tracing is to remove the SIM, but that is not so straight forward.

Very soon, I had a trace running and was able to see, to my  dispair, my iPad move away from the hotel. Unfortunately, the hotel had no security cameras and cars can come and go without needing to be signed in or registered. This made the hotel and ideal criminal target and I soon realised I was simply another statistic.

The hotel security arrived ten minutes later, but could do little. Everyone simply suggested I claim from my insurance. The problem was my iPhone in my hand, was blinking and showing me the traced iPad. I had to do something and giving up was not an option.

The hotel’s maintenance manager, Johan, was prepared to take his car and follow the trace. I agreed and hopped into his car. At this stage the trace was showing up on the R24 travelling south. I suggested we follow the trace to the highway until we could flag down a police patrol car.

Soon we were racing along the R21 as fast as a Nissan Ute can go. Suddenly we were in luck and a patrol car passed us. We followed and started flashing. A police woman pulled over. I explained the situation and showed her the trace. She suggested I jump in the car and so we were soon speeding along after the illusive iPad. Unfortunately, she had to stop as we had travelled outside her jurisdiction. She then suggested we go to the nearest One Stop as there would be squad cars and they would be able to go anywhere (with permission from their captain). The maintenance guy from the hotel had managed to follow and so I hopped back into his car and we crossed the freeway back to the One Stop. There we found a squad car and some very helpful policeman.

I again showed the police the trace I had on the iPad and they got visibly excited like a pack of wild dogs. “Ons kan hulle vang!” At this stage the iPad was travelling very fast on the R21 towards Johannesburg. The guys in the squad car then decided I should drive with them. Five minutes later we had crossed the highway again (I still cannot recall how this all happened), and we were on our way following the  iPad trace to Johannesburg with blazing lights and screaming sirens. I have never travelled in a car faster than 160 km/h before in my life – near Laingsburg once. The speedo was clocking 260km/h and nudging upwards. I closed my eyes and prayed.

As we passed Johannesburg International, the iPad suddenly stopped moving. It was stationary near Bruma Lake in Johannesburg. The policeman were excitedly yapping: “Today we will make an arrest!”.

However, as we got into Bruma, the iPad moved again into the suburbs and town section. The policeman said they did not know the area at all and needed to call in for back-up. They used their radio, but no-one seemed to respond. For a moment it seemed like the only option was for us to give up and turn back.

I suddenly had an idea. I switched to my Tom-Tom GPS app on my iPhone and typed in the street address where the iPad had stopped. The Lady on the GPS said “turn left at the next intersection”. The two policemen were amazed. Both burst out laughing like hyenas in the dark and asked me what else I had. Soon we were heading towards the spot where my iPad had stopped with the iPhone commanding every metre of the way until finally: “You have reached your destination!”.

We were cruising down Derrick Avenue just off Martia Street above Bruma and driving right passed the blinking iPad. The street is a little Chinatown between Bruma and Hillbrow. The squad car stopped and we climbed out. The trace indicated the iPad was in one of the Chinese shops just after the turn into Derrick Avenue. The two policeman started asking the locals questions. In particular, whether any of the cars parked there had arrived recently. “No Englis…no speak any Englis”, is all they got. We walked up and down the street peering into the cars. Nothing.  One policeman explained that unfortunately some police had in the past treated the Chinese badly and so they lacked trust in the police. I kept thinking…”Chinese mafia all about.”

I was convinced the iPad was in one of the stores, because it kept blinking above the shops. Eventually, I asked the policeman whether we could go into each store and look around without a search warrant.  He did not answer me – just started walking into the first store and asking about for the iPad.  “No speak Englis”. We moved out and were walking towards the second store, when suddenly a local car guard said he just saw a suspicious guy walking up Martia road with a black laptop bag. The policeman said I should follow him.

We ran back to the squad car and jumped in. He turned the car around and went back the way we came and away from Derrick street towards Bruma travelling down Martia. He suddenly swerved in front of a house with 6 feet high security fencing and parked at the gate. Several attempts to get a response by blowing his horn and shouting to someone in the house failed. I asked him why we were doing this and he said they saw someone enter the property with black bags. No one answered.

Just then, I noticed the iPad had moved again. I told the policeman, I was sure someone was moving the iPad. It had not moved for 1 hour and 15 minutes. Suddenly it was stationery across the road from the shops.

We quickly returned. This time I was able to switch on the satellite view and could pinpoint that the iPad was stored in one of 4 cars parked in the street. We immediately decided that 3 of the cars belonged to Chinese and it was unlikely they would be the thief. The car in which the iPad was travelling had to be a non-Chinese owner. I then stood next to the only car (there were no bright stickers or dangling red and green lanterns) and decided to send a ping noise to my iPad. “Maybe my iPad was in this car’s boot?”

Immediately, I heard a ping response, but it was not coming from the car. Next to the car was a roller rubbish bin. The noise was coming from inside! I opened the bin…only trash! But the pinging noise was suddenly a lot more audible. I moved some rubbish aside and voila. Just like magic my iPad and my colleagues’ iPads were nestled away in a plastic Vodacom shopping bag. Nice and convenient.

Our tenacity had paid off. The two policemen (Constables Khoia and L.Chauke) were more excited than I was. They then kindly got permission from their captain to drop me off at the hotel in Pretoria. On the way we reflected what had happened and this had really made their day because so often they do not have any success. I kept thinking to myself, what leadership these two policemen have demonstrated. They never complained – were always polite. They could see I was determined not to give up and simply did not want to disappoint me. Even with the Chinese, they remained very calm and never shouted or tried to be arrogant.  I then thought, there was something I could do.

The Police in South Africa need simple technology to be able to do a better job and catch criminals. I have no police training, but with the few technical gadgets I had I was able to get them pretty close to making an arrest.  It is really sad that the hotel has no security surveillance on the cars coming in. If we had the number plate registered, we would have identified the car used to transport the iPad from the hotel and perhaps made an arrest. The hotel did not even have a log book. This was not the first incident. They had done nothing to improve their security!

The insurance industry is spending millions because the easy answer is simply just to give up and get the claim processed. Surely some smart insurer can work with one of the Mobile Network Operators so patrol cars have the technology to be able to trace stolen phones. I actually called Vodacom for help whilst we were racing down the R21 – they said: “they definitely do not do that!” I know the technology exists and it cannot be that expensive to do what I did, because I did it today. This is not rocket science anymore.

If anyone is interested, then I have a few smart ideas of how we can catch a few more criminals using technology and how we can launch the iCop app and lead South Africa in its race against crime.

Tonight I sleep peacefully, knowing there are a few less people wanting to buy a stolen iPad, because they know it can be traced.

Catch them if you can!

Marc Tison