Monday, 31 January 2011
Sunday, 30 January 2011
Do me a favour! – don’t think of me as being so stupid as to believe that.
Are you extracting the Michael? A recursive elaboration of the above to impress upon the refined that despite one’s rough hewn manner one has a ready wit and a extensive vocabulary superior to that which you gained from your expensive private school you posh bastard.
Friday, 28 January 2011
Thursday, 27 January 2011
Wednesday, 26 January 2011
Tuesday, 25 January 2011
Monday, 24 January 2011
Saturday, 22 January 2011
Friday, 21 January 2011
My particular life saver is a metvest™ for which I was fitted right at the start of my probation. A metvest is basically a torso shaped fabric cover into which you slip the armour plates that keep your tender young bits from being pronged by an over excited member of the public.
There’s two types of covers; covert; which is white, smooth and designed to be worn under your clothes so you can stay safe and fashionable. And overt which is black, has lots of pockets, a docking clip for your airwave and, just in case people still have trouble identifying you, a badge that says Metropolitan Police: working for a safer London.
Monday, 17 January 2011
Thursday, 13 January 2011
She tells them that a guy inside keeps trying to set her fur coat on fire. Purdey, wanting to look good in front of Special-K, assures the lady that he'll take care of this and would she be so kind as to enter the pub with him and indicate the miscreant with the wayward cigarette lighter.
In they duly go and there's the suspect, dressed for the opera including a cape and no more than four foot high not counting his top hat. He is, in short, what my dad would call a midget and what I'd call, being a PC PC, one of the little people.
Now the thing about being a policeman is you're supposed to loom in an intimidating manner over suspect and witness alike. In fact 90% of the job can be achieved through the deployment of tactical looming. Fights can be broken up, confessions extracted and motorists chastised with little aggro and, more importantly, less effort. But there's such a thing as overkill.
Poor Purdey couldn't work out what to do, did he stay upright and shout down at the top of the guys head, did he sit down, or kneel down? In the end he adopted a crouched stance which set the whole pub to laughing. Lesley said he should have picked up the 'little person' and stood him on a table.
Now the little guy was, in addition to being an opera buff, an animal's right nut which was why he was setting the lady's fur coat on fire -- as a protest. Purdey did his best to explain that free speech stops short of attempted arson but the little person wasn't having it. He considered nicking the little bastard but figured that slapping the handcuffs on would make him look even more of a prat.