By Robert Hardman
One video clip shows two generations of the same family, including a small child, pilfering from a garage. Another shows a young boy threatening a woman who had the temerity to ask them to clean up the dreadful mess they left on a beach.
These were among the scenes that recently earned a family of British-based travellers, the Dorans, global notoriety as "the holidaymakers from hell" — followed by deportation from New Zealand.
Five months on, the clan are back home and in the spotlight once again as "neighbours from hell" in rural Worcestershire.
Yet the story of the incident-prone Dorans illustrates more than an acrimonious clash of cultures. It raises broader questions which have reached Parliament.
For it exposes the rotten state of a planning system that leaves ordinary householders and their livelihoods at the mercy of a cynical property racket. And it is a story that does no favours to the vast majority of gypsies and travellers, who don't pick fights with their neighbours or routinely flout the law.
The Dorans, though, seem a law unto themselves.
For here, at the foot of the Malvern Hills, residents in two separate locations have been told they have two options: cough up a six-figure sum or face years of filth and tumbling house prices, courtesy of the family whom the Mayor of Auckland called "trash" and "worse than pigs".
And the locals seem powerless to do anything about it.
I have come here, to what used to be called Elgar country, expecting to find residents up in arms. Instead, I am met with sullen silence. It feels more like Sicily than the banks of the Severn.
For the mood in these parts is one of fear. Keep quiet, the locals tell each other, and this nightmare may just go away.
I hear umpteen stories of veiled and not-so-veiled threats, of antisocial behaviour, of petty crime and contempt for the law by members of the Doran family.
They, in turn, deny everything. "It's all lies," Patrick Doran assures me, in between reporting me to the police and physically preventing me from talking to his neighbours.
Community relations, it is safe to say, are at rock bottom in the quiet Worcestershire hamlet of Dough Bank.
Meanwhile, back in New Zealand, the media are grimly fascinated by fresh news of a family who became national celebrities in January after leaving a trail of litter, unpaid bills, soiled clothing and stolen goods during a holiday there.
News channels around the world reported the story of the "unruly Brits" (although the Dorans call themselves "Irish travellers" on all their planning applications).
The family insisted they had merely travelled to New Zealand as fans of the Lord Of The Rings movies who wanted to "see the Hobbits". Accusing the Kiwis of "torture", they warned that they would be reporting New Zealand to "the human rights people".
There had been reports of loutish behaviour before the Dorans even arrived in the country, with family members demanding extra alcohol and seat upgrades on their Cathay Pacific flight, and leaving soiled nappies in the overhead lockers.
As they toured New Zealand, CCTV footage emerged of family members, including children, raiding a service station. Their haul included sunglasses, cans of Red Bull and a Christmas tree.
Restaurant owners reported the Dorans for ordering meals which they would then contaminate with hair — and even ants — before refusing to pay the bill. One hotelier described a room left in such a disgusting state that it required a three-hour clean.
Reporters who covered the Dorans' subsequent court appearances — and attempted to ask how a family ostensibly unable to pay for a meal could afford an extended round-the-world holiday — received a predictable response.
Following a petition that demanded the Dorans' expulsion, several family members were issued with deportation orders. By the end of January, they were on their way home.
Back in Britain, however, another chapter in the tale was beginning.
It was in 2014 that an advertisement for a modest plot of land outside the Worcestershire village of Ombersley appeared on eBay for £60,000 ($NZ115,000). The vendor, a local van driver, called it "building land", though it had no planning permission and was unlikely to get any.
Three previous applications to build on the woodland site above the Severn Valley had all been rejected. Within a year, it had been purchased by one Patrick Doran, who promptly applied for permission to build a bungalow anyway.
When that was refused, Mr Doran applied for permission to build a gypsy caravan site, which was also rejected by Wychavon District Council. But Mr Doran ignored the decision and built his caravan site regardless, then lodged an appeal for retrospective permission, explaining that he and his wife, Tina, were "Irish travellers" with young children who were in need of "a settled base" and so qualified for official "gypsy status".
In 2017, to the dismay of the locals, the Planning Inspectorate agreed with him.
However, his victory came with strict conditions attached: the site would need to be rebuilt, could have no more than two caravans and had to retain a suitable habitat for badgers.
Whereupon five caravans appeared, along with assorted members of the Doran clan, and life became very different for the 22 other homes in the hamlet of Dough Bank.
The narrow lane that winds down to many of the houses would be blocked by vehicles. Human waste began to appear on local paths. A precarious 10ft wall suddenly went up next to the lane, the sloping grassland was flattened and no one has seen a badger in ages.
One family member was banned from the local farm shop, say staff, for repeated antisocial behaviour.
When a pub tried to stop female members of the family marching through its restaurant in dressing gowns to wash in the ladies' loo, there was what one staff member calls "appalling" verbal abuse.
Patrick Doran had a suggestion for his neighbours, however. Two residents tell me, entirely separately, of the identical offers they received.
"Patrick stopped me for a chat and pointed out that the value of our houses had dropped by £30,000 (NZ$58,000). He said that if we clubbed together, we could buy his plot off him for £600,000 (NZ$1.15 million)," says one. "He said it would allow him to buy a family home elsewhere and he was very pleased with himself. I just wish we'd all paid £60,000 for the land back in 2015."
During a brief conversation with Mr Doran, he denies making any such offer.
Since he brazenly ignored the conditions of his planning permission back in 2017, it has been revoked. But Mr Doran seems to know the system.
In January he submitted another application for a gypsy caravan site and the process has started all over again. The extended clan have now moved off the site, leaving just Mr Doran, his wife and four children. The 10ft wall is now much lower.
I find him with his dog, standing guard on the narrow private road leading down to the other residents of Dough Bank. He is smartly dressed in a grey jacket and eyeballing every vehicle passing his plot. I drive down to park and walk back up.
He neither shouts nor swears but firmly and repeatedly orders me to leave. "It's private property. You're not welcome here," he says, assuming personal control of a road that is jointly owned by all the residents.
I explain I want to discuss the newspaper reports. "It's all lies," he says, and repeats the order to leave. "The police is already contacted. If you don't leave, I will offend myself [sic]. I feel attacked, intimidated, harassed and alarmed."
He is certainly not the only one in that regard. A number of neighbours would say much the same about Mr Doran and his family, though most residents refuse to talk to me.
"He gets very angry very easily and we don't want to inflame things," says one.
A few do agree to talk anonymously. All emphasise that they have nothing against gypsies but are dismayed at the way the planning system has left them facing what one calls a "ransom demand". Several of them repeat a story of intimidation too disgusting to record in a family newspaper.
The council has received numerous objections to Mr Doran's latest planning application, many of them pointing out what happened last time, but can make no comment while the process is ongoing. But even if permission is refused, another appeal should keep this saga grinding on into 2020.
Peter Tomlinson, Worcestershire county councillor and former district councillor for this patch, is all too familiar with the story. His gripe is with loopholes that allow certain people to develop land in places where others may not.
"The residents find the rules nonsensical and unfair," he tells me. "And I want the Government to justify this whole system of retrospective planning."
Local Tory MP Nigel Huddleston says he has raised the issue with ministers: "I am lobbying to change the system. My constituents want level treatment."
The situation at Dough Bank is being closely monitored a few miles farther up the Severn, at the small riverside village of Astley Burf. There, in the middle of a row of houses, sits a field about the size of a tennis court, previously surrounded by thick hedges.
Last year, a local family sold it for £12,000 (NZ$23,000) to clan matriarch Barbara Doran. Then, a few weeks ago, it was totally transformed. One weekend, several vehicles arrived, tore out the hedge between the field and Seedgreen Lane and drove inside the site to begin clearing vegetation.
Lawrence Doran, believed to be a brother of Patrick, let it be known that he was planning to build a five-bedroom house there.
The field is now largely dirt and scrub, with sacks of cement piled in one corner. Residents have complained to Malvern Hills District Council about the removal of the hedge, though enforcement officers have taken no action.
According to Land Registry documents, the Dorans have bought the field for "storage of work materials", though there is no planning permission for any change of use.
The sudden demolition of the hedge has certainly caused grave worry in Astley Burf. So what is coming next?
One local says a Larry Doran has been offering to sell the land for £100,000 (NZ$193,000), though that price may not be accurate. "We can ask £5 million ($9.66 million) if we want to," he reportedly told The Sun this week. "We can ask whatever we want for the land because we own it."
Here, I find another wall of silence. One parish councillor tells me it is "a private matter", while another puts the phone down on me. Knocking on doors, I sense the gnawing anxiety that comes with the prospect of years of tension, mess and cat-and-mouse planning applications.
No one will talk. I feel like a door-to-door salesman with bird flu. "Please don't write about this. We just want it to go away," pleads one neighbour, closing the door.
David Mortimer, chairman of the parish council, points out that no rules have been breached.
Back at Dough Bank, I walk down the lane to talk to more residents but Mr Doran bars the way and shuts a gate in my face. He tells me I am banned and that he has called the police.
His wife appears and complains about "racist" reports in the media. I decide to call the police myself to establish the law on banning people from a shared access road.
The police are unsure but eventually advise me I can legally enter Dough Bank if a resident will escort me in. As no one is going to incur the wrath of Mr Doran, that is not going to happen. It's time to leave.
Back on the public road, a passing car lowers a window. "Just keep digging!" says a resident, giving me a nervous thumbs-up.
Have we really reached the stage where one family can hold a village to ransom for £600,000 and still have the law on their side?