Don't Mess With Me … I'm From Luton

Needed to go deep into the Big Smoke today. Found myself wandering aimlessly into Baker Street Underground station, whereupon a chap walked by with a mobile phone attached to his ear. As he went past me, I heard him whispering lasciviously into the earpiece, ‘Do you want to lick me like a lollipop?’

I resisted the urge to grab the phone from his sweaty little palm and dash it to the ground with a Puritanical roar of wrath.

Made up for my lack of action by kindly letting an old fellow off the train in front of me a bit later on. Caught up with the old codger on the escalator and barged him out of the way, but I’m sure he will remember the good things about his morning, as opposed to the bad. Not all of us suck the positive energy out of life.

Picked up the Metro on the next train and skimmed through most of it. This is what I can remember, without the benefit of a copy propped up on my desk: (I may have got some bits wrong)

‘Harman thinks that Gordon Brown isn’t just the right person for the job – he’s the best person for the job’

‘I gave up a career in accounting to work with fragile, homeless dogs’

‘You can make giant bubbles with a coathanger and some bubble liquid, but don’t forget the glucose’

‘We need to stop hounding Whino Aimhouse’

‘Something about Frank Lampard’

‘There was a nasty fire on a bridge somewhere, caused by a chip pan in a £55 trillion refurbished kitchen’

‘David Cameron can throw a frisbee’

‘Baby pandas do press-ups’

‘Shrews spend most of their lives pissed’

Which reminds me, incidentally, of last week outside Crown Court. The chap I was with needed to inhale several cubic feet of noxious fumes (otherwise known as ‘Getting Some Fresh Air’), and we spotted a female who was due in court for sentencing for a nasty criminal misdemeanour. She was surrounded by two other piss-heads, and all of them were drinking cans of Tennants (please bear in mind that it was 10.27am). She was decked in her second best purple fleece, manky jeans and grubby trainers. Not really the sort of person you’d want to lick like a lollipop.

She then proceeded to burst into snotty tears about how sorry she was and how upset she was and how she didn’t want to go to prison (I felt like informing her that robbery was hardly an imprisonable offence nowadays) and the chap I was with took her to one side and had a quiet word in her shell, like. She then gulped back the rest of her can, dumped it gracefully in the bin outside the court and marched in to find out her fate. Ten minutes later she was back, grinning. No sentence. No punishment. Nothing.

Now I know why shrews spend the best part of their lives pissed. They have existed for trillions of years and even impressed Shakespeare enough for him to leave something for them in his will. 

Quite simply: it works.

PC Michael Pinkstone

Barbara (left) and Joyce are not happy bunnies. That’s because they are cows – the latest targets of a new Government initiative.

HOUNDED

“I’m tired of this treatment,” says Joyce, chewing morosely on some grass. “A few years ago the Government nigh on wiped us out with Mad Cow Disease, and now it plans to annihilate us again – in their newest drive to cut methane emissions. It’s just sick.”

And Joyce has a point. For earlier today a Government spokesperson, Dudley Scone, head of the Senior Advisory Committee on Climate Change, had this to say:

“This Government is committed to reducing its methane hoofprint. Several years ago we conducted a nationwide experiment to establish whether or not a drastically reduced bovine population would lead to a decrease of methane present in our atmosphere. Methane is a relatively potent greenhouse gas and is the singular most deadly threat to existence since Weapons of Mass Destruction.”

Barbara does not agree. “This Government should be tackling knife crime, not maligning us fresians.”

RESEARCH

“There is significant evidence to suggest that a single fart from a cow is more destructive to our environment than the belching fumes from a D-Reg’d Vauxhall Nova that has travelled between York and Winchester,” states Curtis Bligh, head of the CH4 Reduction Bureau.

“We estimate that the Government will need to reduce the bovine population by up to 89% if this world is to even consider the possibility of survival.”

The Farmers Union is up in arms. “Not content with speading BSE amongst a hitherto healthy and innocent national herd, the Government is now suggesting that our cows are going to lead to the end of life as we know it,” said a spokesperson earlier.

“Armageddon tired of all of this nonsense,” jokes Barbara, when asked about her feelings on the matter. “All I want is to be able to eat grass and have someone squeeze my udders every now and again. I don’t want to destroy the world.”

OPTIONS

When challenged about the need to practically eradicate cows rather than consider alternatives, Government Minister Nicola Tilsbury stated, “We have attempted to address this problem over the past few years without the need for a second culling. However, the use of corks has been ineffective, leading to several cows exploding.”

FEAR

“I think it’s just another example of this Government wanting to make us all live in dread and terror,” says Joyce. “It’s simply a means of control. Besides, I don’t fart. I’m a woman.”

The debate continues.

Saw Bob Fartwell in the canteen earlier. He had a face like a terribly smug cod. ‘Bob,’ I said. ‘What’s the fishy countenance all about?’
     ‘Aha!’ he replied, leaning forwards conspiratorially, and poking me in the chest with a chubby forefinger. ‘I’ve just ordered a copy of Bermuda’s Clit Orgy on DVD!’ He winked and leaned back in his chair, still looking pleased with himself.
     I was stunned. ‘You’ve ordered what?’ My voice was slightly more higher pitched than usual.
     ‘Well,’ he said matter-of-factly. ‘I wanted Truly Big Comrades but they’re out of stock, so the chap suggested I go for the other one – and he’s given it to me half price!’
     I winced. My gastric boulder was playing up, not helped by the stench of Gloria’s cooking – the miserably curt dog. ‘You’re just a sexual deviant in some cruelty orgasm bid!’ I said with relish.
     ‘Maybe,’ he shrugged. ‘But if I don’t get what I want I go mad! Bluster! Cry!’
     ‘I’m sure you do,’ I said, somewhat acerbically.
     He laughed. ‘Last week I was lying on my bestial cord rug watching a documentary on the phenomenon of Symbolic Turd Rage. Did you not see that?’
     ‘Can’t say I did,’ I responded with a weary shake of my head. ‘Anyway, Bob, I need to ask you about that job in the Indian Restaurant yesterday – the one where the witness saw a customer grab idly at someone else’s takeaway and then run out of the door.’
     ‘How was that graded?’ said Bob.
     ‘Well it came in as a bigoted curry slam initially, but it was later changed to a basic theft.’ I scratched my itchy shoulder distractedly. Had my own cyst bud rigmarole to be worrying about.
     ‘Anyway,’ said Bob thoughtfully. ‘I’ve been wanting to exchange my cord rug for a curbside glory mat. I hear they are much more … invigorating.’
     Before I could reply, Lisa Smith walked past and stood nearby talking to someone else.
     ‘Careful,’ whispered Bob. ‘There’s a democrat girl by us.’
     ‘Come on!’ I said tartly. ‘Get those dumb literary cogs working. She’s a free thinker!’
     ‘She couldn’t even work out how to use the dumb cola registry!’ Bob was scandalised.
     ‘Just take your calm sobriety drug and you’ll be fine!’ Bob knew I was joking.
     ‘Yeah, I’ve read that surgical tome by Dr Dominic Wilson. It’s quite handy.’
     ‘You could do with losing some weight, according to his research,’ I was serious. Bob was quite a hefty bastard. ‘You need to visit the Aerobic Guys LTD. Mr Fartwell!’
     ‘What, and contract that horrible gym disease known as Belgium Dry Scrota? No thanks!’
     ‘I’M BUSY! GET MR CORDIAL!’ The yell startled us both. We turned and saw the Chief Inspector storming out of the canteen. He didn’t look pleased.
     ‘He’s just upset about his crystal morgue bid.’ It was a strange thing to want, but he was hoping to make death more glitzy, I guess. Last year he wanted a marble custody rig. Strange, strange ideas.
     Just then, Lisa left, performing a grim, bold curtsey before making a hasty exit. She didn’t like to see tension in the air. Not even Gloria’s grey limbo custard could raise the mood. It was a case of disturb meal! Cry! Go!’
     ‘Hey!’ said Bob loudly, making us all jump again. ‘Have you seen the new painting entitled “Rural Egotism” by DC Cartwright?’
     ‘Is that the one with an erratic symbol dug into the canvas?’ I, too, wanted to lighten the mood.
     ‘Yep,’ said Bob, standing up. ‘Anyway mate,’ he said, patting me on my itchy shoulder. ‘What’s this job you need help with again – some domestic burglary?’ Bob had a memory like a goldfish.
     ‘Nope,’ I said, hating the sound of those two words together.
     ‘Good,’ replied Bob. ‘It sounded like bollocks anyway. Domestic Burglary! ‘Tis burglar comedy …’

(Added 27/07/08: Spoke to a dear friend yesterday who said that he didn’t have a clue what this post was all about. He now understands and is kicking himself. Bless his little cotton socks.)

 1. Basic Definition of Theft Version 1.1.1

(1) A person is guilty of theft if he dishonestly appropriates property belonging to another with the intention of permanently depriving the other of it; and ‘theft’ and ‘steal’ and ‘nick’ and ‘thieve’ and ‘half-inch’ shall be construed accordingly.

(2) The following sections of this Act shall have effect as regards the interpretation and operation of this section.

2. ‘A person’

(1) More commonly known as ‘Thieving Scum’.

3. ‘Dishonestly’

(1) A person’s appropriation of property belonging to another shall be regarded as dishonest in ALL cases of Shoplifting, Burglary, Robbery, Theft by Employee, Theft From Motor Vehicle and Theft of Motor Vehicle. The burden of proof will be on the defence to prove honesty, as opposed to the burden of proof remaining on the prosecution to prove dishonesty. It makes sense.

(2) If he appropriates property while under the influence of drugs, he has no statutory defence whatsoever in Law. ‘Just say “No” to Bail’.

(3) A sudden desperate willingness to pay for the property or an ‘If I say I did it will it get me out of here quicker so that I can score a bag of B?’ will be considered an automatic admission of dishonesty.

(4) In cases of Theft Not Classified Elsewhere, the burden of proof remains on the prosecution to prove dishonesty. (e.g. a drunk student steals a Christmas Tree from a front garden and wakes up the next morning to find it in the bath with the lights still attached like what my brother did at University in 1992.)

4. ‘Appropriates’

(1) An appropriation shall be considered an automatic assumption of full rights of ownership by the person in all cases outlined in Section 3(1). There is no such thing as an ‘Honest Mistake’ regarding these cases.

(2) An appropriation shall be considered an automatic assumption of full rights of ownership by the person in cases outlined in Section 3(4), but there remains a latitude in Law to make reparations to the victim without the need for Sanction Based Detections and Criminal Records. Any refusal on the part of the person, e.g. the ‘Drunk Student’, to make such reparations will amount to an automatic assumption of full rights of ownership by the person, as in cases outlined in Section 3(1).

5. ‘Property’

(1) Any stuff that can be nicked, which includes Benefits.

(2) Any stuff that hasn’t been nicked but shouldn’t belong to the Thieving Scum anyway, which includes Benefits.

6. ‘Belonging to another’

(1) Any property belonging to another that has been stolen by a person, as described in Section 2(1). Any property found belonging to a person that has been stolen shall be confiscated, as will any property that should not belong to that person, e.g. I know it gets mentioned a lot on police blogs, but why the fuck should the chavs spend all day watching a 48″ plasma TV when I can only afford a shitty little one from Sainsburys?

7. ‘Intention of permanently depriving the other of it’

(1) In cases outlined in Section 3(1), there is no need to prove intention. It should be fucking obvious.

PC Michael Pinkstone

Aristotelianism

You have two cows. One is inanimate matter. The other is almost human. They both produce 15 pints of milk a day. You mix the milk together.

Cynicism

You have two cows. They’re yours and yours alone. Milk them, drink all the milk yourself, and sod everyone else.

Dialectic

You have two cows. Well, you have one cow (thesis). And you have a different cow (antithesis). Altogether you have two cows (synthesis).

Empiricism

You have two cows. Look at them. Touch them. Smell them. See, you’ve definitely got two cows.

Epicureanism

You have two cows. Milk one carefully. The milk tastes good. Milk the other one whilst poking it in the eye with a twig and it will kick you in the head. Hurts doesn’t it?

Existentialism

You have two cows. There’s one of you. You know that the two cows you have might not actually be two, but you know that you can depend on yourself to know that you are indeed one person, even though the two cows you own might indeed be three cows. Or four. You choose to believe that you have two cows.

Humanism

You have two cows. There’s nothing supernatural about that.

Idealism

You have two cows. They’re not real. You form an image of them in your mind. They’re real.

Logical Positivism

You have two cows. Look at them. Touch them. Smell them. Check your encyclopaedia for a definition of a cow. If the animals you have looked at, touched and smelled match the definition, then you have two cows.

Marxism

You have two cows. They fight and fight and fight quite unsuccessfully for domination. In the end they both decide to be communists.

Pragmatism

You have two cows. You decide to throw one from the top of the Eiffel Tower. It dies. You decide that this wasn’t a particularly good idea, but know that you wouldn’t have been satisfied until you tried it.

Predestination

You have two cows. One will die on the 17^th of August at 3:26pm from Mad Cow Disease. The other you will shoot in the head the following day for no apparent reason. And there’s nothing you can do about it.

Rationalism

You have two cows. Are you sure? Yes. They are both grazing in the field.

Scepticism

You have two cows. Are you sure? No. Even though they are both grazing in the field.

Stoicism

You have two cows. One murders your wife and children. The other amputates your legs and arms and eats them in front of you. You are a good and virtuous person and don’t worry about it.

Utilitarianism

You have two cows. Milk them daily and share the milk between the 37,465 people in your village. You think this makes them happy.

Transcendentalism

You have two cows. Look at them. Touch them. Smell them. Take mind-altering drugs with them. See, you have eighteen wombats and two thirds of a giraffe.

We walk into our garden one day and see a weed growing in the flowerbed. Oh no! A weed! Panic! Inform somebody! Public outrage! This equates to a 5.3% rise in weed crime! Do something! So we stand around for a bit and look at the weed. We observe it carefully. Take note of it. Record its details. Monitor it. Gather intelligence. After several weeks, we produce a Report. Serious questions need to be asked: Whose fault is it? What system failed in order for the weed to grow? What policies do we need to implement in order to avert such a crisis in the future? How can we learn from our mistakes? How can we tackle this problem in a more efficient manner?

After a while, the weed begins to flourish even more. Soon, it is apparent that it is blocking the light from the surrounding flowers. So we dig up the surrounding flowers and move them elsewhere. We create a healthy gap between the weed and the rest of the plants. Sadly, one of the flowers dies after it is pulled up from the ground. Oh no! Panic! Inform somebody! Public outrage! I’ve got no faith in the Gardeners!

So the Tabloids get involved. What are the Gardeners doing about the weed? How are they tackling the problem? How are they preventing more innocent flowers from dying? Will there be any more casualties before something is done?

So we start to hurt the weed. We spray it with Anti Social Growing Orders and give it a Penalty Notice for Osmosis. We starve the soil of certain nutrients in order to stop the weed from getting any bigger. We don’t water the soil. We block out the sun. We inform our ‘Partners’ and our ‘Stakeholders’. We draw up diagrams. Flow charts. Flip charts. Meetings and conferences and agencies and ticky-boxes and drop-down menus.

Sadly, our tactics have affected the other plants too. They are feeling the strain from the lack of water and the lack of light. They are suffering even more than the weed in their midst. Oh no! Panic! Inform somebody! Public outrage! I’ve got no faith in the Gardeners!

Several weeks have passed and the storm of outrage has abated. The weed is still there, if somewhat curtailed. All the other plants have had to make do and mend because they are British and have abandoned all hope. They have all had to make allowances for the weed and no-one is able to offer any constructive means of dealing with the issue. So they all have to live with it. There appears to be no solution to the problem.

Then, one day, a Gardener comes by.

He takes a trowel out of his bag, which he has had all along.

He casts aside the paranoia and dives into the flowerbed.

A tussle ensues and he gives the weed a few sly digs in the head.

Then, with relish, he thrusts the trowel deep into the wholesome, British soil and digs that fucking bastard of a weed right up from the root, and throws its lifeless form into a fucking compost heap.

THE END

PC Michael Pinkstone