Rules And Regs

Don’t panic!

You haven’t been in an accident, fallen into a coma and then travelled through time. This is just a post-dated post to keep it at the top of the page.

Having been out to grass for a few months now, the penny has finally dropped: Knoll building isn’t very exciting; whereas embroidery is full of thrills, spills and endless possibilities. While I try to get my (non-profit) pattern swap-shop up and running there’s a slim chance that my tales from the needle-face may overlap with observations surrounding the other things I do that actually pay my mortgage.

Fortunately, those very nice people who insist on depositing money into my bank account every month have been able to offer me some much needed guidance should such an overlap occur:

1. Unless otherwise stated, nothing you read below represents the views or opinions of any official organisation, public body or private individual other than me.

2. I can’t tell you any secrets; which is just as well because I don’t know any.

3. I can’t be offensive or an ‘-ist’ of any description. I’m afraid that means I won’t be able to have a ‘Page 3 Stunna’ in case you were hoping for one.

4. You can’t give me any cash, presents or heavily discounted takeaway meals.

5. Even if hot-off-the-press embroidery breaking news stories should come to my attention while I’m at work I can’t tell you about it until I finish my shift and am safely away from any computer equipment belonging to my employer.

6. I have to consider the impact of any views and opinions I may express with regards to potentially damaging a public organisation or bringing it into disrepute. I have no desire to damage or diss the people who pay my wages but, this is something that is open to interpretation. Should I suffer an interpretation malfunction I’d like to invite my (very, very nice) employers to get in touch and point out my shortcomings so that I can rectify them.

Readers should note that this site is, essentially, aimed at fellow embroiderers seeking a little light relief and is in no way purporting to be in the slightest bit serious. If you’ve accidentally surfed in here in your quest for Bodycam ‘Journalism’ or for relief of a more hardcore nature then I’ll save you some time:

Happiness is but a click away.

Aspirations

It’s always a good icebreaker.

A list that is.

I think I need one as it’s so long since we’ve chatted properly and some of you seem to have got here via a certain naughty book, without a clue about what to expect. All I can say is that you shouldn’t take anything here seriously. No one else takes me seriously so there shouldn’t be any reason for you to buck the trend.

Despite the best efforts of the Pensions Department, I won’t be switching schemes to one that requires me to work longer for less benefits. So I only had to come up with thirty things to do before I retire. I can only apologise for not being totally inclusive, as some of you county mounties may discover:-

A Brian List Of Things To Do Before Hanging Up Your Truncheon

Drive a station van with egg on your tie/cravat.

Say something inappropriate to your Superintendent or their significant other at a social gathering.

Transfer out to a county then transfer back when you find out how hard real work is.

Sleep with a nurse/firefighter/both/both together.

Arrest someone famous.

Have your photo taken by Japanese tourists.

Arrest someone for murder.

Blag your way onto the helicopter.

Use the phrase “Get your trousers on, you’re nicked” for real.

Get bitten by a Mark I.

Win the song title game on early turn.

Kick a suspect package.

Put the wrong door in on a warrant.

Serve on a jury.

Seize a Super-car for no insurance (bonus point for driving it in yourself).

Get a suspect to stop running by shouting “Armed Police!!”

Get over 20 skills listed on CARMS.

CS spray your guvnor (by accident).

Have a spectacular Polacc.

Get interviewed at Tintagel House in your tunic.

Get bleeped out on a reality Police TV show.

Be one of eight officers who all get the word ‘splendiforous’ in while giving evidence at the Old Bailey.

Tazer someone.

Be the phantom farter at an NSY briefing (bonus point if the speaker is of ACPO rank).

Head the ball back into play at a televised football match, in full uniform.

Get in the national press dancing at the carnival.

Close a road or station that gets you on the Flying Eye.

Get the phrase “He’s all over the road MP” into a commentary.

Sell a colleagues big jugs/miniature cockerel in Pravda.

Stop a large pub fight by firing a gun into the ceiling.

How did you do? I’m well on my way and have found that pacing myself works. With it being appraisal time of year you can always ask for one of these to be set as your objective if you’re having inspirational problems.

Personally, I wanted a Tazer course this year. However, I’ve been told that my objective must be either Race and Diversity or Customer focussed. So, with all the arresting ones out of the frame again, I’ve plumped for number 6.

Everyone up to the HR Manager has signed off on it.

Of course they read it. Right?

Loud And Blurred

I felt like a burglar.

Sneaking through the door in the early hours of the morning, after another busy shift of relationship counselling and meeting future members of Alcoholics Anonymous. My bitch seemed strangely subdued, that might have something to do with the large box in the hall.

The one that said “Chainsaw” on the side.

Now, I like to think I’m a pretty observant kinda guy, I can spot a drunk driver at half a mile and a doomed relationship at the first utterance of “Iwanimnicked”. I was reasonably certain that I hadn’t owned a chainsaw when I had left for work the previous day. My gardening skills hadn’t yet stretched to growing anything in need of its attentions. Besides, I’ve moved on to embroidery now.

The last time Mrs Brian and I had had a conversation I’m sure she hadn’t mentioned sending her CV out to logging firms. I don’t think the Disability Discrimination Act could make any of them employ a lumberjack with vertigo. Even if she did have her own tools.

I was nonplussed.

My bitch looked nonplussed.

From the gentle snoring coming from elsewhere in the house I guessed we were two for three. I could go and accidentally nudge her awake to find out why the household power tools had doubled overnight, but this course of action was fraught with danger. What if she confirmed my (so far unmentioned) suspicions that her mother was related to Leatherface and she had worn her old one out? No, that was a conversation best left until Mrs B was definitely in a good mood. She can get quite grumpy if woken up a couple of hours before her alarm clock is due to go off. She’s a bit funny like that.

Erring further on to the side of caution I made up my, now familiar, spare room bed and slept fitfully between dreams of picking up strange hitch-hikers and imagining every central heating creak to be the pulling of a starter cord.

Having successfully made it through unscathed until lunchtime and time to get up in preparation for another afternoon/evening/night of Small Corner peacemaking; I was no closer to solving the mysterious power tool materialization. I was even further away from enlightenment when I got downstairs to find said chainsaw now missing. I’m positive I hadn’t imagined its presence and I know it wasn’t a hallucination. I may have been nearly knocked out by cannabis fumes when opening the door of a pool car earlier the previous evening, but I certainly hadn’t inhaled.

This was a dilemma best pondered in the park with man’s best friend and a rubber ball. Having reached a solution, a quick detour was called for.

“Your sign says you have flowers for every occasion…..?” I enquired.

“Yes, that’s right. What sort of event are you celebrating?”

“Errmm….”

It seems a fifteen quid mixed bouquet and a card saying “Sorry” are the solution to all chainsaw occurrences.

Even if you’re not sure what you’re apologising for.

It has something to do with Mars and Venus, apparently.

Suite Music

Pretty paint colours are all well and good.

But is it enough for the twenty first century arrestee? I think not.

Some may say that we already pander to their every whim with Ooman Rights, uppers, downers and nicotine gum being as freely dispensed as a clip round the ear was in days gone by. Yet, I can’t help feeling that we’re not doing all that we can for the little treasures. It’s not like they’re actually guilty of anything is it? Only the wisdom of a court of law can decide that.

Meanwhile I think there are three things we could be doing to make their stay with us more comfortable without too much trouble:-

1. Aromatherapy. Admittedly these would have to be particularly strong scents to overcome the lack of foot hygiene common with the average arrestee. A whiff of Frankincense could do wonders for the insecurities and loneliness of the first timer. A puff or two of Jasmine could calm the angry with a strong lemon and peppermint cocktail just prior to interview to aid memories of those who may otherwise have gone “No Comment”.

2. Mood Lighting. Instead of the half-hearted stripes we could change the atmosphere at the touch of a knob. Soothing yellow for the aggressive, dim with twinkly stars for the sleepy and royal blue for those prone to telling tall tales.


3. Music. Nothing does more for the ambience than some slammin’ tunes. There is a small problem to solve with this one though. If you’ve ever been into a custody suite and the radio is on there is a 99% chance that it’ll be tuned into the local easy listening station. It generally keeps the custody sergeant from climbing the walls, but they’re tough and can take multiple hours of Lionel Richie, Foreigner and Chris de Burgh.

Besides, it would be nice to have that personal touch. With Top of the Pops being replaced by some sort of celebrity/island/dancing/cooking docusoap we should act fast and snap up some of the up and coming talent before MTV offer them videojock slots. Imagine the line up we could have:

Mike Read could play Relax for Smudger and Billy who have had to share a cell due to a busy night.

Simon Bates could update his show to include “Our Text”. Where Tracy could tell Dazza in cell four: ‘Fanks 4 protectin me onor lst nt. Wen th pigs dragged u in2 the van ur best m8 degsy took me home an e got me drunk and took me onor 3 times an once mor dis morning. It don’t mean nuffin I woz upset. Im only telling u coz e sez e as crabs an I don’t wan u finking Im a slag or sumfing. Mum sez I don’t av 2 go 2 skool 2day so Il c u at court. I ope u don’t get sent down coz the baby wil need is dad.’

Steve Wright could see if he can impersonate Mr Angry in cell twelve.

Kid Jensen could make sure Disqual Dave in cell seven was kept up to speed with the traffic situation for when he gets bail.

Obviously there would be occasions when we would override these semi-pros. Like when solicitors go in for a chat with their clients. We wouldn’t want them upset by an inadvertent burst of Lady in Red would we? We’d have to have a special setting for them that automatically played some soothing gangsta rap.

With the mood lighting turned to blood red/strobe effect and the aromatherapy system pumping out vodka red bull they could have a whale of a time. It should stop the two hour long consultations for a No Comment interview strategy. Think of the Legal Aid money we would save.

I’ll let all of you non-subscribers know if The Sharp End editors decide to put my ideas into a future edition.

I can’t see how they can refuse.

Don't Mock The Inflicted

It’s not big and it’s not clever.

You know who you are.

I cannot believe the waves of negativity I feel in the canteen every month when the new edition of the award winning magazine The Sharp End hits the specially constructed and taxpayer funded holders. There are more scoffs and howls of derision than you get at an average Prime Minister’s question time. One day I fear someone is going to choke on their 999 breakfast.

Thankfully the Home Office appear to have thought of this potential problem. It’s the only reason I can think of for their insightful disclaimer in the small print:-

‘…the Home Office accept no responsibility for damage or illness that results from advice given in this magazine’

Even the Met Federation don’t seem to be that enamoured with being sent enough copies to pass around to their entire extended families. I think that they should have led by example and used the handy text number to subscribe. Then, like me, they would be the first to read it every month. I believe it definitely gives me the jump on the average villain as my regulars have recently been commenting on.

Only the other day I was discussing the merits of colour psychology (issue 16 if you missed it) with a tipsy domestic assault suspect when I was part of a team carrying out a cell re-location on him. He was (almost) speechless when I told him that he would have been in a much better mood if we had been lucky enough to have been pinning him down in a state of the art cell somewhere in Gwent. In fact he stopped trying to kick my teeth down my throat long enough to enquire:

“Are you a ******* sheep ******* then you ****?”

Knowing that our cells aren’t equipped with bright yellow door frames I continued my end of the conversation from the safety of the other side of the heavy steel door. As I pointed out to him, yellow is a calming colour and he would have been feeling less fraught if the door frame had been painted thus. I could hear him clearing his throat, but before he could butt in I thought I’d let him know about the benefits of having a broad blue border painted around the walls of the cell.

I have to say that I was hoping for some constructive input from him as I had doubts about this one. I can understand that the line could help the visually impaired define the boundaries of the cell. I mean every visually impaired person has this scheme in their own homes don’t they? It was the more the belief of psychologists that certain shades of blue encourage truthfulness that I wanted his views on. You see, the police have traditionally worn blue for many years and I can’t say that it has had the desired effect on most of the people I speak to. Maybe we should try a lighter shade?

Unfortunately the conversation ended there as I had to close the wicket to avoid the mouthful of saliva and mucus aimed at me. His muffled reply, although following the blue theme, didn’t sound like a suggestion I could put forward to the Uniform Department.

I went off, armed with my scientific proof, to see if I could convince the Custody Sergeant to spring for some yellow paint.

Sadly though, he was a scoffer.

(…to be continued…)

Dear Diary (2)

Nodded off yet?

No?

I’ll continue then:

After the initial excitement of using my investigative powers to add to the statistics had worn off, we settled down into an unfamiliar routine. In normal circumstances we’d be going from one call to the next making copious notes and avoiding contact with bodily fluids.

Instead we got to trawl around looking for naughty people doing naughty things. Invariably this means we have to make use of some of our special powers. Sadly these don’t include leaping from tall buildings (banned under HASAW), x-ray vision (banned under RIPA) nor running at the speed of sound (banned under the Too Many Pies Act).

That just leaves section 1 of PACE, section 163 of the RTA and section 23 of MOD. For those of you not past the preface of ‘Law for Dummies’; these are the most common powers we use to stop cars and to stop and search suspected naughty people. Our use of them is not an exact science and unlike integrative biology the decision to stop someone isn’t easy to explain.

Stop them we did though. It is amazing how many people you can find “just waiting for a friend” in the early hours of the morning. Stops are like buying a house, you know if they’re ‘right’ or ‘wrong’ in the first eleven seconds. Although several will be having a day out at court in the next six months we didn’t arrest anyone.

The best answer of the night came from an unemployed eighteen year old driving his nearly new German car. All forty grand’s worth.

“I got traders insurance innit”

Yeah right, just like the only person he could name with a non-‘international’ driving licence was someone related to his second cousin’s girlfriend.

Before retiring to the station to write down everything we had done in triplicate, there was a final call. We refer to it as a “suspects on” and it is one of the few remaining good calls. By this time of night those units not tied up with a drink drive or domestic prisoner will all go. So that was two cars then.

Local knowledge of the area was enough to know that we’d need some specialist help and the furry exocet was requested. Fortunately one was close by and arrived shortly after us. Now, without revealing any trade secrets; I can only say that the Mark I can do in a few seconds what could have taken us twenty or so minutes to do. The handler then makes their buddy do it all over again in a more thorough manner just to make it look good. Then they say “They went that way”, coupled with vague pointing.

However, this particular Mark I had obviously had a big dinner. After his first scoot around he settled down out of sight of his handler to lighten the load. When he didn’t respond to commands I informed the handler, from my vantage point, that his partner was temporarily indisposed.

I’m no Gillian McKeith, but I don’t think that he was getting enough fibre in his diet as the movement went on for what seemed like an eternity. I started wondering what overtime code I could use for this situation.

“Has he finished yet?” came the cry, followed by some very juvenile giggling from the darkness.

“Nope, has anyone got a newspaper for him?” The only one not laughing by now was the handler who made use of a very rude phrase.

That seemed to do the trick and the Mark I was off with a new found spring in his step. After a meticulous search to the accompaniment of a barrage of toilet humour the, now hangdog, handler said “They went that way”. I had a feeling someone wouldn’t be throwing any rubber balls for a while.

So, Insomniac of Tonbridge Wells, there you go. Some real police work to get you off on. I trust it worked and I can get back to normal?

After all, it’s not all thrills and spills.

Defecating dogs aside that is.

Dear Diary

I have been inundated.

By an e-mail.

It seems that the various satellite channels full of reality Police programmes aren’t enough for everyone. Well, at least not for an apparent insomniac from Tonbridge Wells anyway. He would like nothing better than to read about the thrills and spills of modern day policing to help him get off at night.

Even in my pre-gardening days I tend not to write about specific events in a journal style. Any particular incidents I mentioned were usually very old and had some details altered to protect the guilty. Likewise, any minor involvement I’ve had in headline making stories or dealings with ‘celebs’ I steer clear of writing about. Those are saved for leaving dos, and always get better the later into the night it gets.

Of course, as any officer will know, not everything we do is in the slightest bit interesting. That goes for about ninety five percent of the incidents I deal with. Of the remainder, a lot is identifiable and/or sub judice, therefore unblogable.

However, to try and stop the tossing and turning going on in Tonbridge Wells, I decided to make a note of the events of one shift:-

The Secret Diary of Brian, Aged 54⅞.

February 30th 2006

It’s a night shift and I’ve had to take drastic measures in the pursuit of appeasing a restless Kent resident. In normal circumstances I would be lucky to get one or two calls in before ending up at a disturbance on private premises call that kept me busy for the rest of the night. Fortunately, we’re pretty flush with officers and are putting a crime car out. It’s not something I’d normally volunteer for as it means working in plain clothes. Personally, I prefer to wear uniform just in case someone decides to bleed/spit/vomit/urinate/defecate/ejaculate/all of the above on me.

In a stroke of good planning; my partner for the night is also experienced, meaning I don’t have to drive. It’s slightly risky tactic though as not driving more than doubles my chances of having to run. As a driver you soon learn the value of using the power of an internal combustion engine in a foot pursuit.

Onto the first call of the night then; it can be best summed up as alcohol, angry words, weapons and blood. A busy street and twenty upstanding members of the public there before us, none of whom had seen a thing of course. That would be too simple. The victim (loser of the fight he probably started) spent most of his time trying to refuse treatment and speaking on his mobile in a language I didn’t understand. When he finally deigned to speak to me he had completely forgotten what had just happened and didn’t want to trouble us any further. He wasn’t quite that polite about it though. After eventually persuading him to give me his details he told me, in heavily accented English, he was ‘John Smith’ of no fixed abode. Now, I’m no detective, but I suspect this might be another violent crime statistic that we aren’t going to get a tick in the detection box for.

Cured your insomnia yet? Don’t worry, there’s more.

I’ll bet you can’t wait.

(…to be continued…)

James Who?

At least they were very polite.

Although it wasn’t mentioned; I’m pretty certain the admissions in my covering letter may have tipped the scales against me. Next time I’ll tell them I like my lager shaken, not stirred and I’ll take the chance that there won’t be a skiing test at the interview.

So, the successful applicants may now be traveling the globe by submarine/private jet/hot air balloon saving it from destruction, but could they deal with a disturbance on private premises? I’m pretty sure it won’t be in the Spy School curriculum. To show that there are no hard feelings, I’ve put together a training package for them:-

Brian’s Handy Guide To Domestics (For Spies).

1. The Journey. It’s unlikely that you’ll be needing your Q-Boat or attack helicopter, any low powered diesel vehicle will do. Try not to jump any rivers on the way, it’s not big and it’s not clever. Besides, the Garage Sergeant is not going to be impressed. Trust me.

2. The Arrival. I’m in no doubt that you’re used to looking for a mansion set in several hundred acres with a mile long drive and valet parking? Just in case this isn’t the scenario you find, please remember to lock your car.

3. The Entrance. Be prepared, I’m yet to find a hat stand at a domestic.

4. The Introductions. If there isn’t a butler to announce your arrival you’ll have to do this for yourself.

5. The Participants. You may find yourself faced with a facially disfigured despot stroking a white cat while exchanging barbed comments with a supermodel in a bikini. Then again, you may not. Look for something similar.

6. The Offspring. There’s a good chance that there will be a large number of these. Having seen all twenty of your training videos I’m aware that it’s something you don’t ever come across. They’re easy to spot; just keep an eye out for people roughly the size of Nick Nack, but with shorter sideburns.

7. The Smalltalk. It’s possible this could be laced with the odd profanity and a veiled threat or two. Try not to take it personally and get the despot and supermodel separated.

8. The Investigation. Yes, it could be that the dispute is with regards to a devilishly clever plan to steal the nuclear secrets of an ally. There may be a plot to overthrow their democratically elected government in the process and it could be that there is a booby trapped explosive device involved too. As hard as it may be to believe, the quarrel could even have something to do with alcohol consumption, a lowering of moral standards and/or the lack of a live-in anger management consultant. You just never know.

9. The Solution. Not every house you’ll visit will have a trapdoor leading to a shark infested pool. Nor will testing your skills with your trusty Walther be necessary in most cases. Fortunately, Q has put some thought to this problem and has come up with an answer: Codename 124D.

10. The Escape. Try not to run out screaming in frustration. It makes us all look bad.

Now you can go back to your base and write this all up in quadruplicate, or just cut and paste from the last report.

Remember guys, the pen is mightier than the PPK.

A Brief Resumé

Before I’d be let loose with my licence to kill.

I suspect that they might do some basic checks on me.

Like whether or not I have any form for leaving material marked ‘Top Secret’ in a pub, on a train, in a ditch or on the back seat of a taxi. I should be pretty safe with this one. The closest I’ve ever got to ‘Top Secret’ information was having a source on the canteen staff who always gave me the nod when chicken tikka masala was to be on the menu for the following day.

So, I thought it best to tone down my CV a tad. I have to admit removing the part about me teaching Kofi Annan everything he knows about diplomacy was a blow; but it’s probably for the best as I’m guessing they might ask him if he remembers me. He’s getting on now and I can’t rely on his memory. Similarly, even though it stung quite a lot, my first in Colonicology from Our Souls College, Oxted had to go too.

Adding these deletions to the others I wasn’t left with a lot to work with:-

A C.S.E. grade two (I wuz robbed) in needlework from a top inner-city comprehensive. Admittedly it was only top of the league for truancy, but I was one of their ‘high achievers’. This could explain why I wasn’t there to get my tap on the shoulder from the visitor from Vauxhall. I’m pretty sure I had an emergency poker game that day.

A six month stint as a Cub Scout. I’d have to be careful with this one, considering how it ended. Tent pegs at dawn, blood, tears and a court martial would be an accurate summary. Mother still can’t bear to talk about it.

A very hard paper-round.

I’m sure that even the most optimistic of people would be slightly daunted at applying for the job of stopping evil megalomaniacs from invading countries with these attributes. Although, I was hoping that the recruitment advisors would add sufficient weight to my proficiency with a tent peg. Imagine what I could do with a rocket launching tiepin?

With the advice to tailor a CV to the job for which one is applying; I did have one ace to play: The time I arrested ‘Osama’. This would be sure to impress even though it wasn’t quite enough to get Gorgeous to cough up the $50 million reward.

I have to confess that ‘Osama’ was driving to a party having had a few too many in the pub beforehand. My honed detective skills were instrumental in discovering that he was in fact Gary, a faux-cockney plasterer from Kent despite his insistence otherwise. His passengers, a tipsy Tinky Winky and a portly Spiderman, were left at a bus stop while ‘Osama’ accompanied us to the Small Corner version of Camp X-Ray.

I went into great detail on this, just in case they hadn’t read the intelligence report I submitted.

Besides, I had a lot of space to fill.

(…to be continued…)

At Your Service Ma'am

Yes, yes I know.

It’s not strictly true anymore.

Somewhere along the line we seem to have painted ourselves into a bit of a grey area; albeit a grey area that was slowly turning more black and white as the days passed. Now we’re back in the corner with a thick fog obscuring the route out. Just who are we supposed to be protecting and from who or what? Oh, that’s right, I remember now. We’re protecting everyone from everyone else. That’s simple enough then; now all I need to know is who’s at the top of the pecking order today?

Traditionally, we work for the reigning monarch; they even get a free thirty minutes of my time every now and then. These days we don’t get too many demands from that direction. I don’t know if anyone has broken the news to Junior yet but, by the time he’s had Changing Rooms in to jazz up the wind farm in the back garden of SW1A 1AA it won’t be his peace we’ll be struggling to keep.

As a dyed in the wool patriot this realisation disillusioned me somewhat. After all, I only joined so that I could do my bit to make the Throbbing Metropolis a nicer place for our pensioners; aiming to keep their bedrooms Chav-free and to prevent naked paragliders from landing on their roofs. Maybe I could concentrate on helping just one out with a career change then?

I narrowed down my options. I don’t know one end of a pumice stone from the other, so a footman post wasn’t for me. My bitch turns her nose up at my cooking and opts for the tin every time, Mrs Brian has pointed out on numerous occasions that moving things around doesn’t match the dictionary definition of “cleaning” and I’ve long accepted that I don’t have the requisite gravitas to be a butler. I mean, how many butlers do you know who own a whoopee cushion? State dinners would never be the same again.

I considered offering my knoll building services too. In my book, every land owner should have at least one knoll from which to ambush their neighbour; you never know when you might need it. However, it’s a long way to Calais from Victoria and I didn’t think that even the most powerful Super Soaker would reach that far.

Feeling certain that the right opportunity would turn up soon, even if I had to widen my net a touch, I kept one eye on the recruitment section of the Leafy Suburb Tribune and the other on constant watch for nude aviators. You never know when they might strike.

My patience was finally rewarded with this advert. If ever a job were tailor made for me this was it. It looked like it came with a pretty natty company runabout too. I’d make sure to ask about the dual fuel version at the interview to keep Junior happy. I was certain he would want me to keep my carbon emissions to an absolute minimum while travelling the globe saving it from destruction.

Now all that needed doing was to update my CV.

And to practice my eyebrow arching.

(…to be continued…)

In Google We Trust

Yippee-ki-ay muthanature!

Well, that's what would have happened had it not been for a small oversight on my part.

As with a lot of people who find themselves in a desperate situation I too found myself increasingly drawn towards a chemical solution. Extensive internet research pointed me in the direction of a very potent cure-all for eliminating pesky critters. That’s right; Agent Orange.

Those spiky watchamacallits wouldn’t know what had hit them. Unfortunately, my search didn’t turn up a recipe. It seemed that the original manufacturers would be somewhat reluctant to sell it direct to me, besides they didn’t have any left. So, I’d have to try a less direct route involving a phone call to the newest agency of the appropriate country’s government. Needless to say, most of the conversation is “classified” so I can only give you the edited highlights:-

Patti-Sue was very pleasant and clearly happy in her work.

Patti-Sue didn’t quite understand my request. I think it may have been my accent.

Patti-Sue put me on hold for a few minutes.

Special Agent Joe wasn’t as friendly.

Special Agent Joe insisted that they didn’t have any chemical agents currently in stock.

Special Agent Joe didn’t think I’d find any on ebay either.

Special Agent Joe didn’t know what a spiky watchamacallit was.

Special Agent Joe was very interested in my employer. I assured him I didn’t work for anyone called ‘Al’.

Special Agent Joe did know exactly what a knoll is. I didn’t have to spell it out for him.

Special Agent Joe didn’t wish me a nice day before he hung up.

With nowhere else to turn, knoll site preparation was put on hold. Besides, now that the great British summer is upon us, working outside has had to cease due to a water shortage that Mother Nature is doing her level best to rectify. I’ve taken up embroidery in the interim. I’ve even got a monogrammed thimble.

It’s only now that I can share this with you as it has been at least a week since the last sighting of a black SUV with tinted windows in Leafy Suburb. The neighbourhood gossip was that they were timeshare salesmen looking to offload a des-res in the Havana suburbs to one lucky winner. I sure could do with some sunshine at the moment but, I’ve seen the TV reports and it looks like the nightlife isn’t up to much. If they’re not careful Nicky and the crew from Watchdog will be on their case.

So, now that I’m back and knoll construction has been cruelly curtailed due to circumstances beyond my control, I’ll have to think of something else I have an interest in to write about. Hmmm……I suppose it’ll have to be the ups and downs of embroidery then. The blogging world can never have too many sites dedicated to the crazy Cross Stitch community. I’m already looking forward to pattern swapping with like-minded readers.

Unless something else springs to mind that is.

Natural Enemies

Sometimes the obvious solution isn’t.

Obvious, I mean.

In times of crisis it’s nice to know that there is always someone there for you. Even though Mrs Brian with her disdainful looks and pithy comments weren’t readily available; there is always another option. In my case I turned to the internet and Yell.com. They may have been having an off day recently but, it’s hard to miss their advertisements these days. So, I gave them another chance.

“Hello, Leafy Suburb Naturist Club. Brad speaking, how can I help you?”

“Oh…err….hello. I….erm… got your number from the internet….”

“Yeeesss”

I had the feeling that this wasn’t the first slightly tongue-tied person Brad had fielded a call from. The truth is that I didn’t really think about who I would be speaking to when I dialled the number. I challenge anyone to telephone a naturist club and not imagine the person on the other end being in the buff. I’m sure Brad was a lovely chap. However, the images that persisted on presenting themselves in my mind were somewhat disturbing. I hoped he and his co-workers had designated chairs.

“Yes, I have a little problem I wondered if you could help me with?”

“Oh I see. Don’t worry, we offer a wholesome, clothing optional environment focusing on body acceptance and giving you the opportunity to gain a better body image and more self-esteem.”

I wondered if they used Blu-Tac or drawing pins in their office. My money was on the Blu-Tac.

“Oh right. How are you with stingy things and spiky watchamacallits?”

“Sorry…?”

I hoped they had the air conditioning cranked up so that they didn’t catch a chill in this cold snap we’ve been having.

“You see, I searched for ‘fighting dirty against Mother Nature’ and you were recommended.”

“We were?!?”

Buffy Brad wasn’t sounding so cocky now.

“Yes. Do you have a callout charge? Or, is it just an hourly rate?”

“Err… We don’t do home visits.”

“How are you going to rid my knoll site of the stingy things and spiky watchamacallits then?”

“I’m not exactly sure we can help you. We don’t fight against Mother Nature; we embrace her.”

Sigh. I wasn’t entirely certain that Mrs Brian would be too chuffed with Brad and his chums embracing in the garden. She’d be bound to ask some tricky questions. Still, nothing ventured, nothing gained.

“Any chance you could pop round to embrace some of her less welcome offspring and rip them out by the roots?”

“I don’t think so.”

“I have plenty of Dettol…..”

“No.”

“….and an angle grinder if it helps?”

“Goodbye.”

Click, buurrrr.

Typical. Trotting out a flashy mission statement but, when it comes down to the nitty-gritty they turn their noses up. I’ll bet they’ll be the first to complain when cheap EU labour comes in and takes their jobs. They’re safe for a while yet; searching for a Polish naturist club willing to do a home visit was beyond even the trusty Yell. It’s only a matter of time though.

With Mother Nature still winning the battle of the knoll site and Buffy Brad falling woefully short of expectations; it was time to bring out the big gun. No more Mr Nice Guy.

It was Google-Time.

A Thorny Issue

Much like one of those punchbags for kids.

There was a slight sway and then my chosen target righted itself with one leaf looking a bit worse for wear. No problem; I have the genes for this and made some corrections to my backswing. A flex of the knees, hips pointing at the target, head down and fast acceleration through the turn. David Leadbetter might have had some disapproving words as I picked myself up and surveyed the sum total of my efforts. Three leaves.

With my bitch firmly hunkered down in the furthest corner of her kennel, I went in search of the correct footwear. Once I had donned my Callaway Comfort slip-ons I really gave it some welly. A dozen swings and nearly as many leaves later I took a breather. These stingy and spiky opponents weren’t giving up without a struggle. Time to fight dirty.

Grabbing a handful of stalks near to the base seemed like a good idea at the time. Mother Nature had thought of that one though. After tweezering out the thorns and a liberal application of Dettol I retrieved a pair of gloves and tried again. Several hacks later I had reduced a couple of stalks to stumps and needed to pause for some reflection; and to get my breath back.

When carrying out tricky tasks I find contemplation time to be invaluable. With a deck chair, cans of stale beer and some reading material to hand I felt sure that inspiration would soon strike. Sure enough, an hour and three beers later I realised my problems: Apart from being locationally challenged when it comes to clitorides, I had a blunt sickle. Obviously both of these issues needed dealing with. As my assortment of power tools were designed for building and destroying things I felt sure that Mrs Brian would be in full agreement if I used them to deal with the second problem first. I don’t think the ‘marital aids’ mentioned by the Cosmo feature writers included my orbital sander. Even on its slowest speed.

The following ten minutes or so have prompted me to issue some important safety advice. If you try to sharpen the blade of a sickle with an angle grinder, don’t hold the sickle between your knees. At least, not without the proper protection. A cricket box should do the job.

After another, slightly more painful, Dettol application I realised I’d had the solution in my hands all along. Mrs Brian was going to be very impressed when she got home. You see, even the most sturdy of growths can’t resist the determined efforts of an angle grinder. Mother Nature hadn’t planned for that one had she?

A third of the way through I decide to step back and admire my handiwork with the assistance of the final beer. My smirk of satisfaction disappeared as my bitch ventured out during the hiatus and had a scratch’n’sniff around the base of one of the remaining stumps. Clearly Mother Nature wasn’t going to go down that easy; and neither was I. There was a battle of wills to be fought and, if she was going to submit to me, I’d need more help than Cosmo and alcohol could offer.

What I need is an expert.

(…you can open your eyes now ladies…)

Trade Secrets

Unfortunately the snow didn’t venture this far south.

Which left me fresh out of site clearance excuses.

As I have previously mentioned: I should be in possession of the DNA footprint required for gardening. If not the tools. I have no idea what happened to Granddad Brian’s (RIP) horticultural implements when he left us for the cabbage patch in the sky. He bequeathed me a fruit bowl. It’s a very nice fruit bowl, but it’s usefulness outside of holding fruit are somewhat limited. To the best of my knowledge the stars of Groundforce have never found a use for one on their shows.

In fact, much like you never see Hollywood actors going to the toilet in movies; you never see Charlie and Tommy clearing any stingy things and spiky watchamacallits do you? We only ever get to see the sexy side of gardening where nail guns and water features are the order of the day. So I guess there is a chance they have a fruit bowl on their lorry that they whip out when the cameras aren’t looking. Unless I can get hold of a ‘Groundforce- The Director’s Cut’ DVD, the use for this item in knoll site clearance will have to remain a mystery.

Not to be deterred, I made my way to the garage in the certain knowledge that my genes were of sufficient quality to overcome this problem. I could almost hear Granddad Brian (RIP) whooping an “Attaboy!”

Now I don’t wish to be rude but, if you are of the female persuasion I’ll have to ask you to look away now. You see, I am about to reveal some blokey type stuff to which you should not be privy. Much as you girls never tell us what really goes on at an Ann Summers party; you shouldn’t know what happens when you go off to your mother’s having left us with a ‘project’. All that both sexes are really interested in is the net result; the rest should remain a secret. So bear with me ladies.

Now that we’re alone guys, I’m sure that, like me, you are well aware of the contents of your garage. Just maybe not the exact location of everything. With my bitch at my side, an extensive root around commenced. Five minutes in and she was busy licking her bits while I had turned up:-

Various oily thingummies.
A deck chair.
An unused socket set.
A four pack of beer past it’s sell by date.
An assortment of power tools.
Old copies of Cosmo, dated when Mrs Brian and I were courting.
A dozen half-tins of paint in assorted terracotta shades.
A rusty sickle.
A collection of rock-hard paintbrushes.

Hang on, I’d hit the jackpot! I had a rusty sickle. The previous occupants had clearly not been too vigilant when they had left over a decade earlier. Having left behind such a useful tool I could almost forgive them the dodgy wiring, floral wallpaper and bailiff visits.

Now that I had a tool designed centuries ago for exactly the purpose required, I squared up to the stingy/spiky jungle. My bitch quickly sized up the situation and made for the nearest cover.

With Granddad Brian (RIP) whispering encouragement in my ear.

I took a swing.

(…no peeking yet girls…)

Special Delivery

“Whaddya want?”

“Oh, hello is that Customer Service?”

“Last time I checked.”

He sounded like he had been having a bad day. Best I keep it brief and to the point so he can get back to tossing fragile parcels around the office to keep his spirits up.

“I wondered if you could explain Division 6.2 of the 2005-2006 Edition Technical Instructions for the Safe Transport of Dangerous Goods to me?”

“What the ****?”

I think he must be new.

“I’ve read your website list of prohibited items and this part isn’t very clear.”

“Really?”

“I’m trying to import some produce from another country and your standard parcel rate, at three sixty a kilo, seems very reasonable. I just need to know if it’s legal.”

“We can charge whatever we want. It’s called a monopoly.”

“Quite. Could you explain the dangerous goods instructions to me please?”

“No. Tell me what you want to send, and I’ll tell you if you can.”

He didn’t sound like the type of person who was up to speed with the ins and outs of the camelid species. I’ll have to keep it simple.

“It’s a fresh product originally from South America.”

“We don’t have the monopoly in South America.”

“It’s not coming from there. An acquaintance has done all the hard work and he has the refined product on his remote farm in Wales.”

“Refined…?”

“Yes, he says he could easily send me a kilo a day.”

“A kilo of what exactly?”

Sadly, it seemed that I had not yet reached his level of comprehension. I’ll have to try speaking in language he’d understand.

“Good s***.”

“Good s***?”

“Yeah, really good s*** from Peru via Wales.”

“And you want to post it?!”

Not the most convincing sales technique I’d ever heard.

“Yeah, I need to get it here quickly so I can mix it up in my garden.”

“Oh…”

“Obviously I don’t want it to burst open when it gets put through my letter box; so I’d appreciate it if you could get the postie to lob it over my back fence.”

Click, buuurrrr.

Oh dear, it sounded like Division 6.2 of the 2005-2006 Edition Technical Instructions for the Safe Transport of Dangerous Goods included a section on Alp-p-paca waste. I just wish I knew what it said. Maybe he had gone to look it up.

Meanwhile I’d have to tell G-G-Gareth to hold his pooh.

On Hold

Standby, I'm on the phone.....

G-Good Samaritan

“Hello, Leafy Suburb one two one two.”

“C-c-can I speak to B-Brian please?”

He sounds nervous, maybe some joker has placed my number in the ‘Adult’ section of the local paper. I put on my most manly voice.

“This is Brian, what can I do for you?”

“It’s m-m-more what I c-c-can d-do for you.”

Uh-oh, there was me thinking all of the double glazing companies were boycotting me following the unfortunate rape-alarm testing incident(s). Still unsure of the caller’s needs; I kept my chin tucked firmly into my chest.

“What would that be then?”

“I have a p-p-product you m-m-might b-be interested in.”

There was a definite Celtic lilt to the voice, combined with an overuse of consonants I guessed he was calling from somewhere west of the Severn. Not being fully au-fait with the laws passed in the new assembly, I let go of the alarm rip cord. No sense in creating an international incident; I’ll have to out-smart him instead. Adopting an unfamiliar mocking tone, I continue:

“Are you a mind reader then?”

“N-n-no y-you asked f-f-for it.”

He was being defensive, obviously he was very new. I think someone in a Welsh Job Centre had played a cruel joke.

“When did I ask for a phone-call from someone to sell me something I don’t need? My double glazing is in very good order. If that changes in the next ten minutes, I’ll call you back.”

“I’m n-n-not s-selling d-double g-g-glazing.”

“New gas supplier?”

“N-no.”

“Electricity?”

“N-n-no.”

“Internet service provider?”

“I’m n-n-not s-s-selling anything.”

Aha! A book club then was it? Two upfront best sellers of dubious quality followed by sixty monthly purchases of Jeffrey Archer novels to stave off the bailiffs. No chance matey, I’m not going to fall for that one again.

“I’m not interested. I can’t take the shame.”

“I b-breed Alp-p-pacas.”

What?! He might be new to this but, as a tryonelastefforttokeepthemugonthephone line, this was a beauty. Hand on heart I can say that I’ve never spoken to an Alp-p-paca breeder before. He had me. Damn!

“What’s an Alp-p-paca?”

“It’s a c-c-camelid.”

Silly me, of course it was.

“Oh, of course it is. What have they got to do with a book club?”

“N-n-nothing, they c-can’t read.”

I was confused.

“I’m confused.”

“They p-produce a lot of p-p-pooh; I have a s-s-surplus I thought y-y-you c-c-could use.”

Ahh, everything was becoming clear. Obviously there was an EC directive instructing welsh camelid breeders up and down the valleys to cold call unsuspecting people and offer them a chance to help reduce the Alp-p-paca pooh mountain. Either that or he was trying to get his own back for recent sporting results.

“Why would I want your surplus of Alp-p-paca pooh?”

“F-f-for your k-k-kinoll.”

With all of the recent distractions I had completely forgotten about my plea for help. Why hadn’t he just said so?

“What did you say your name was again?”

“G-G-Gareth.”

G-G-Gareth and I d-discussed d-d-details.

Out-Foxed

With shared access issues to consider.

Not to mention the space problem; exacerbated by the recent neighbourly erections of barbed and electrified fences. Together with a recent, top-secret government decision; I have a fruitless morning of telephone conversations. The very nice people at 118 insisted on continually putting me straight through to either a locksmith or plumber for some reason.

The search engine at Yell.com must have been having an off day too. In response to my request of “rip a fox to shreds and feed on its entrails” I was directed to their office equipment listings. To save readers from wasting their time; I can confirm that none of them sell a shredder recommended for fox eradication. Even, somewhat surprisingly, the confidential destruction experts at Reisswolf baulked at my query. I couldn‘t get through to James, Trinny or Susannah to complain either.

Several plummy voices also confirmed that none of my local hunts were willing to provide a herd of Shetland ponies and a couple of Yorkshire terriers to flush him towards my super-soaker. Which is a shame; I thought they would have been pleased with an offer of work. ‘Brother X’ at the Leafy Suburb branch of animal liberationalists wasn’t a great deal of help. In fact, he was very coarse.

In desperation I call a familiar number.

“Hello, Leafy Suburb Enviro-Crime Unit. Kay speaking; how can I help you?”

I decide to keep it friendly, there’s no point being antagonistic just because the lazygoodfornothingcow refused to help with my previous problem.

“Hello Kay”

“Oh God”

She wasn’t going to make it easy then.

“I have a problem.”

“Yes, I know.”

What? Maybe I had misjudged the Enviro-Crime Unit. Had they been carrying out their own surveillance? They could have given me the nod; I hardly got a wink of sleep.

“Oh, you’ll know I need an exterminator then?”

“A what!?”

Aha! Sleeping on the job were we?

“Well the law says I can’t use poison or shoot them in an urban area; I can’t chase them on horseback and I can’t get a big enough shredder. I’ve tried encouraging my bitch to savage one of them, but she seems reluctant.”

“Oh”

“The law says I can trap them though.”

“It does?!?”

Clearly Kay wasn’t up to speed with the current legal situation.

“Yes it does. I need to know what to do with him afterwards though. Do I put him in the boot of my car then drive to a forest and dump him, or do you have a better suggestion?”

“Err…I think I need to put you through to someone else.”

At last, some action.

Ten minutes later.

“Hello, you’ve reached the Leafy Suburb Conflict Resolution Team. We’re not in the office at present. If you’d like to leave a message after the tone we’ll get back to you.”

Great; I hate answer-phones.

Beep

“Err….hello, my name is Brian…..I don’t know how much you’ve been told? I’m trying to build a knoll in my garden so I can ambush my neighbour and it’s not going very smoothly…. Last night I was on stag and spotted an interloper that I need to get rid of first. I would be grateful if you could send me the details of an exterminator…”

Beep Beep.

“...who specialises in...”

Click, buuurrrr.

Damn! Still, at least they got the gist.

That fox won’t know what’s hit it.

Dog Wish 2

While Andy’s hero checked his Traser for the umpteenth time;

I must have drifted off.

Playtime over then is it? Oh well….

Zzzz zzzz zzzz

Zzzz zzzz zzzz

What was that? OI! WAKE UP!!

“Wh....what?”

Oh, false alarm. It was just a bit of wind.

“Was that you?”

You’re a fine one to talk. Besides, it’s your fault for giving me that dodgy treat earlier. You know salt doesn’t agree with me.

Zzzz zzzz zzzz

Zzzz zzzz zzzz

What was that? Something moved. There’s something out there near the bins. It’s gotta be that stupid cat from next door. OI!! OI!!

“What now? You spotted them?”

Come on, get the door open. I need to teach a cat some manners. This is my manor. COME ON!!

“I can’t see anything. Are you sure?”

Get a move on…..Oh, hang on a sec…. That aint no cat….. In fact, just forget I said anything.

“What’s that by the bins?”

It’s nothing. Like I said: Sorry for waking you up and all that. If you could just go back to sleep I’ll get on with licking my bits and we can forget this ever happened.

“That looks like a fox.”

Fox? Did someone say fox? If I wasn’t so busy bits licking I might have been able to do something about it for you. As it is, I think we should ignore him.

“Where did I put the key?”

Whoa, easy tiger. Haven’t you forgotten something? I’ve carried out a dynamic risk assessment and I know I’m twice his size. He won’t be alone though, and that they all have really sharp teeth. Have you seen what they can do to a sheep? I think we should withdraw to the RVP, somewhere upstairs under your bed works for me; while we wait for the local wildlife officer, a hostage negotiator and Teapot One.

“Go get him!”

Hey, HEY!! Enough of the pushing already! Do I look like a foxhound?

“Where’d he go?”

Eh? He’s done a bunk, yeehaw! WHO’S YOUR DADDY? WHO’S YOUR DADDY?

“Shush, you’ll wake the neighbours.”

I’M THE DADDY!

This gardening is truly a complicated business. I can see why Andy’s hero never tackles so much as a geranium without an Eastern European gun and a cheap leather jacket to hand.

This has got to be worth something.

What I need is an expert.

How about a bit of rubber lovin’ for the heroine then boss?

And a new dog.

Bastard.

Dog Wish 1

Nothing. Not a sausage.

I scoured the rolling media channels, in vain, for news of a Super-tanker running aground in the Leafy Suburb lido to explain the delay. Leaving me with the conclusion that Kay wasn’t taking her job too seriously. Either that or she was chained to her desk compiling important government statistics. Time to take matters into my own hands. No more Mr Nice Guy.

I hatch a plan and gather the essential kit together:-

One (1) bucket of cold water conveniently sited for ardour dampening.
One (1) very bright torch to assist with aim.
One (1) sun lounger positioned inside the patio doors.
One (1) Andy McNab novel for motivation.
One (1) fearless guard dog for general fearlessness and keen hearing.
One (1) rubber ball for motivation.

With Mrs Brian safely tucked up in bed out of harms way. I settle down on ‘stag’ (cheers Andy).

Hmmm…. What’s he up to now? He’s got my ball so it must be a new game he’s thought up.

Damn! Forgot the briefing.

“Come!”

Wahey!! Rubber ball time!

“Right, tonight’s intention is to catch some hardened environmentalists in the act.”

Look boss, I’ve told you before; I’m a dog which means I understand words of one syllable. The rest might just as well be Greek. Just get on with it and dish out the goodies.

“You’re well aware of the information that has got us to this stage. I’m willing to forgive you if you get this bit right.”

No ball yet? Maybe if I look really cute.

“I want you to report any sightings and then we’ll rush them. You’ll be in the lead. Do your really scary look. I’ll deliver the good news (cheers again Andy) and then you cover my tactical withdrawal. Okay?”

Perhaps if I just chased my tail for a bit? He always laughs at that.

“You’ll be pleased to hear we won’t be doing any writing for this but, it is a potentially risky operation. So, I need you to cover me. Can I rely on you?”

Whoa…! Dizzy now. I need a lie down. He obviously isn’t giving the ball up that easily. If I play dead I could at least get a tummy rub out of this.

“Make sure you listen out for my commands and we’ll be alright.”

Well, I’ve tried everything and you’re obviously not paying attention. So I’m going to lick my bits until you come to your senses.

“I’ve considered their human rights and we should be safe as we’re protecting our morals.”

Yeah, yeah; whatever. Can’t you see I’m not interested?

“Any questions?”

Listen up pal: If you get any closer I’m gonna lick your face.

With the team pumped up and ready for action.

I settle down to learn some more from the master.

Bastard.

Doggedness

Granddad Brian (RIP) was keen gardener.

He liked nothing better than to work up a sweat pottering in his vegetable patch.

Sadly, the current weather isn’t set for mopping ones brow while leaning contently on a pitchfork. Not to be deterred, I wrap up well and venture outside with my bitch for a site survey. To be honest I did try this from inside first, but the American garden design software I purchased kept crashing every time I tried to site my knoll. Still, if Granddad Brian managed without electronic aids I felt sure I had the genes for it too.

As I attempt to get a vision of knoll-like splendiforousness while avoiding the stingy things and spiky watchamacallits, I can’t help but notice my bitch seems distracted. She’s snuffling, and it’s ruining my concentration. When I investigate, all thoughts of genetic hand-me-downs are quickly discarded. After placing a bucket over the discovery, I move out into the quiet lane beyond my property border where my suspicions are confirmed. Oh dear.

What I need is an expert.

“Hello, Leafy Suburb Enviro-Crime Unit. Kay speaking; how can I help you?”

While I’m all for equal opportunities and the like, there are occasions when a man to man conversation is preferable. This was one of those occasions. Not wishing to offend the very pleasant and very young sounding Kay, I try a subtle tactic to try and save her from any embarrassment.

“Hello Kay. Could you put me through to your Enviro-Crime Investigation Department please?”

“We don’t have one of those. Perhaps if you told me the problem I could assist?”

Fiddlesticks! She was a tough cookie. There was not going to be an easy way around this. In times like these I find it good practice to be professional; eschewing slang as it can be potentially misleading.

“My bitch has found a prophylactic hidden in my knoll site.”

“A prophylactic?”

Poor girl, I can almost hear her blushing.

“Yes, a used one.”

“Used?”

Clearly Kay was a skilled interrogator and destined for promotion.

“Yes, the knot in it has preserved some vital evidence too.”

“Let me get this straight: Your bitch has found a knotted, used prophylactic in your nole site?”

I told you she was sharp.

“Yes, I’ve done my best to cover it up; but it’ll need removing as soon as possible.”

“Oh… errm… How did it get there?”

“Well, I’ve done some rooting round in my back alley and I think it came from there.”

“Your back alley?”

She didn’t sound too impressed with my amateurish investigation. Best I explain:

“There are some fresh tracks outside my garage door. I’m a heavy sleeper so I can’t be certain; but I think they were left by the culprits.”

“Fresh tracks?”

“Yes, they’re too big to cover up. In case they wash away, would you like me to take some photos for you?”

“NO!! Sorry. I meant that won’t be necessary.”

Oh good, the Enviro-Crime Unit obviously had its own CSIs.

“Can I ask why you have called us about your…err… problem?”

Well I never, there was a definite tone of sarcasm now. Maybe Kay wasn’t quite ready for promotion yet.

“I would have thought that were obvious. I have a dogging issue here that needs stamping out before any D-List celebrities try to squeeze their big four by fours up my narrow lane.”

There, that told her. I’m sure Granddad Brian would have been proud of this direct approach.

Click, buuuurrrrrr.

Aha! Kay had clearly been galvanised into action and I headed back to the garden to await the arrival of the Enviro-Crime Rapid Response Unit. I wondered if they had a charter time as I had a site survey to complete.

Uh-Oh.

It seemed I had underestimated my bitch’s latex fetish. I should have put a brick on the bucket.

As I retrieved the tattered remains:

My bitch smacked her chops.

PC Sharon Edwards

A reader of these pages has brought to my attention that an officer
well known across the northern half of the metropolis has recently
passed away after a long illness. P.C. Sharon Edwards will be
fondly remembered and missed by many officers and staff alike.

Looking Back In....

When I was younger; I can remember visiting the funfair.

One of the attractions that kept me busy for at least five minutes was the “Hall of Mirrors”.

Standing in front of a series of cleverly curved and shiny surfaces always produced some pointing and laughing. My youthful ignorance is the only reason I can explain why I laughed when I pointed at myself looking very fat, painfully thin, tiny then giant-like in quick succession. There’s not a chance I would find this amusing now.

You see, I run the risk of “causing offence” and being “unfairly harmful” should I do it now that I’m all grown up. For this reason I now need to offer my unreserved apologies for the above paragraph to the following:-

The morbidly obese.

Anorexics.

The Seven Dwarves.

Robert Wadlow.

As some may have noticed, most of my posts warranted self-censorship and apologies in the event they caused offence to those listed. You can never be too careful it seems. To be honest, I’m still a bit nervous about leaving the “Land Sharks” post on; just in case a Mark I logs on and sneaks a peek. They can be very vindictive you know.

I have not been told that I cannot write a blog, nor have I been told that I cannot blog about policing. What I have been told, in essence, is that I should use common sense. This is what I thought I was doing; but it seems my version of common sense is not the same as the official line on the subject. For this reason I will no longer blog about policing (except where unavoidable). I thank all of you who have shown your support both in the comments and via email. If you are reading this believing it to be a blog about policing, can I take this opportunity to re-direct you to this unbiased and full of common sense online reading matter. It’s a thumping good read too.

So as not to jeopardise my crime-fighting role, which I very much enjoy, I will remain on blogging gardening leave until my level of common sense matches the official policy. To put it more succinctly and misquote someone with far more common sense than me:-

"But it was all right, everything was all right, the struggle was finished. He had won the victory over himself. He loved The Throbbing Metropolis."

From now on this site will only feature posts on gardening and other similar subjects I know absolutely nothing about. I have a knoll to build and I think the world should be able to track its progress. If you haven’t all deserted me to read a far superior site at the link above that is.

Still, unlike some, at least I’ll be able to look at myself in a normal mirror and laugh out loud.

If that’s okay with everybody?

A Little Bit Of Knolledge

I need to get this one right.

No room for any errors; I’ll need to make sure I have all of the required permissions. We may have moved on from the permissive society but, I don’t think I should have too many problems. It can’t be that difficult; can it?

What I need is an expert.

“Hello, Leafy Suburb planning department. Zoe speaking; how can I help you?”

Less than four rings to answer, they’ll be doing well on their charter times this month.

“Good morning Zoe. I’m trying to find out if I need planning permission to construct a knoll?”

“A what?”

“A knoll.”

“A know-all?”

“No, a knoll.”

“A nole?”

Zoe must be new to the job.

“No, a knoll. Kay-en-oh-el-el.”

“Oh, a kinoll. What’s a kinoll?”

“It’s a hillock.”

“Oh, I see……Where do you want to build your kinoll?”

“I thought that the garden would be the best place for it.”

“Ah, yes. What will you be building it out of?”

Good question, I’ll have to wing this part; Google doesn’t have the answer to everything.

“I’m planning on using soil mixed with manure and some turf to cover it in.”

“Will it be a permanent structure?”

“I was kind of hoping so; yes.”

“Will anyone be living or working in it?”

Oh Heavens. I hadn’t thought about this. I missed the knoll dissecting, geography field trip at school; my mum lost the permission slip and I had to do an afternoon of ‘quiet reading’ instead. I’ll have to wing this one too.

“Erm… I’ll probably have some earthworms and moles doing their thing in it eventually. I won’t be charging them rent or anything like that though.”

“No, of course not. Can I put you on hold for a minute?”

Poor girl, she sounds like she’s about to have a coughing fit; she didn’t even wait for me to answer. It must be this cold snap we’re having.

Three minutes later.

“Hello, my name is Marcus Planning Department Supervisor. I understand you want to build a knoll in your garden?”

A very strange name; maybe his parents had a sense of humour or his career path had been premeditated from birth? Still, he sounded like a jolly chap.

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Can I ask why?”

“Because the angle from my depository window is not good enough and I keep knocking my shins on the edge of the bath.”

Marcus sounded like the chilly weather was getting to him too. I hoped they had the air conditioning cranked up in their office.

“Because the angle from your depository window isn’t right and you keep hitting your shins on the bath?”

“Yes”

I think someone must have been telling a good joke in the background. I hoped Marcus didn’t get distracted; this was important.

“How will having a knoll help?”

“I can hide behind it and ambush my neighbour, with my water pistol, in the summer.”

“You want to hide behind it and ambush your neighbour with a water pistol?”

I couldn’t hear the joke teller; so I guessed they were probably looking at a very funny website in the background. It’s always nice to hear people enjoying their work, especially in the hurly-burly world of a Council Planning Department. There’s bound to be a lot of de-stressing needed. I must ask Marcus for the url when we’ve done with the more pressing matter.

“Yes, I’ve got a bid in on ebay for one of the big super-soakers. He won’t know what’s hit him.”

“Why do you want to use a super-soaker on your neighbour?”

The cough was back.

“Because he’s got a hose with a trigger grip on it and he won the snowball challenge last month too.”

“Snowball challenge?”

Marcus was being very thorough despite the distractions in the background.

“Yes, it was a lucky shot. Can I have permission to build my knoll then?”

“Err… I’ll have to consult my colleagues and get back to you.”

Pleased he wasn’t going to be making any rash decisions I left my details and wished him a good day.

Damn! I forgot to ask for the website address. I didn’t think I should ring him back to enquire about something so trifling.

He probably had better things to do.

Reflection

It seems that not everyone is a fan.

I’ve been rumbled and stand accused of a number of curious ‘offences’. You’ll be pleased to hear that I’ve gone ‘No Comment’.

For the foreseeable future I’m on gardening leave.

This is so that I can “seriously reflect on the impact and outcomes of some of my statements”.

The first thing I need to do is to build a grassy knoll.

Anyone know where I can get some cheap manure?

Free Prize Draw!!

What you missed: Information about a very worthy competition to make our jobs easier, with a slightly disappointing prize.

Unreserved apologies to: The creator of the competition, the chooser of the prize, Kwik-Save and anyone who took my 'entry' seriously.

Political Mammals

What you missed: A report about a politician making some very disparaging remarks about policing.

Unreserved apologies to: Any member of the political party concerned.

Another Option

You’ve got to ask yourself one question:

“Do I feel lucky?” Well, do ya punk?

You see, you really should know what you’re up against. It may not be quite as deadly as a .44 magnum but, it’s just as scary.

There’s bound to be a ‘passing motorist’ who will glimpse part of your transgression and give us a ring to tell us all about it. No point in them hanging around to tell us more; not when there’s an important journey to complete. Of course, we could get the call from the actual victim. The chances of this are greatly increased if they’ve called everyone else in their phonebook first and someone has mentioned the words ‘insurance’ or ‘compensation’.

So, now we get to the first contact with the crime fighting machine; the control room operator. Hopefully, all we’ll get is the facts. If we’re really lucky we may get the correct road name, post code and borough. A good description and direction of travel would be just a bit too much to wish for. At least we have plenty of people on duty to investigate what we do get; and generate the all-important crime number.

One of those ‘lazy’ wooden-topped patrol officers will be first on scene while the trail is still fresh. Well, they will be if it’s an important enough call and they aren’t sitting in front of a computer wading through important messages and demands for action from an office officer. They’ll have to weigh up the importance of the call versus the missing sentence from a crime report first though.

They’ll get to make the decisions on what help will be needed to ‘solve’ the crime. Or indeed, work out if there is a crime in the first place. With any luck they’ll hear phrases like “I don’t know why I bothered calling you”, “What took you so long?” or “I just need a crime number” as soon as they arrive in their high powered diesel vehicle that smells of torched brake pads.

If they see fit they could call on:-

A supervisor; to pass the buck to in the case of something that looks like it has a buck that needs passing.

A scene examiner; to cover every stationary object in silver dust and shake their heads.

A helicopter; to get their Air Miles up and to tell them to call out a dog unit when they can’t find anything.

A Land Shark; to bark, drool, pee against anything stationary that isn’t yet covered in silver dust and then to lead the handler on a four mile hike before losing the scent on a housing estate.

A detective; to take charge of really important stuff. They usually come in threes or fours depending on how many trainees still have workbook gaps to fill in.

A firearms unit; in case there are any potential photo opportunities and to talk in code on their secret radios.

The Spice Girls; to grunt a lot and to help with any large scale problems or searches. Providing there is a strong possibility of overtime that is.

A probationer; to do all the writing, generate the crime number and to stand on the crime scene when everyone else has left.

Now, the more observant may have noticed that I haven’t mentioned those cruelly confined to the nine to five office treadmill. There’s a very good reason for that: We don’t need them to help out at calls. They can stick to what they’re best at; which is sending out messages over the next few days to the reporting officer to tell them that they’ve missed something off the report. Or, to draw up a policy over the course of a couple of months making the original offence disappear from the crime statistics.

Ms Blears will be pleased to hear that everyone else on the list works during the busy times making up the ‘less than ten percent’. Maybe she won’t try and meddle with policing decisions then? After all, ministers don’t have the best recent track record when it comes to this activity.

No need for Chas and Dave to make a comeback either.

Sorry guys.

Busy Boy

What you missed: A response to enquiries about my lack of posts during a hectic work period.

Unreserved apologies to: Taxpayers.

Option Three

With the ‘quick-fixes’ doomed to under-perform.

We need to think outside the box and tackle this problem at the root.

Now that I have the attention of all the buzz-word junkies I’ll explain.

Clearly the problem doesn’t lie in there being insufficient numbers of officers on the streets at the times the offences are being committed. It’s the other way around; the naughty little scallywags are committing offences at the wrong time. Well they must be. Otherwise it would be our fault and nothing is ever entirely our fault.

I’ve been giving careful consideration to the optimum point of the day for anyone considering committing an offence to do so. To be honest, I’d prefer that they didn’t commit a crime at all but, there is no telling some people; no matter how many new laws Ms Blears votes for. Besides, I think it’s actually written into the Human Rights Act somewhere that they’re allowed to do whatever they want.

We have to get this message out to our target audience. So what we need is an effective advertising campaign with lots of adverts on daytime TV, messages printed on strong lager cans, leaflet holders at sportswear shops and fast food outlets and maybe a cheery little ditty from Chas and Dave to appeal to the youth market.

I’ve decided to call this campaign “Crime-Time”; if only to make it easier for Chas and Dave to come up with some deep and meaningful lyrics.

In an effort to help my colleagues in getting a good run up at solving the crime, it’s going to have to be as early as possible in the day. Not first thing though, there are a few important tasks to be completed first. Like breakfast and a chat with colleagues about the previous night’s goings-on in the soaps and whatever reality TV show is currently airing. Then there is the Sudoku puzzle in the free paper to complete having not been able to find a seat on the train.

Warming up the computer is next with a quick scan of favourite sites and to see how their bid is doing on ebay to start the working day. Then it’s on to email to see who has had the audacity to send a clarification request about their latest policy. Barely legible messages sent at four in the morning are passed around the office for everyone to chuckle at the stupid wooden-top. They are soon put to the bottom of the pile when a statistics request from a senior officer is spotted. Flow chart programmes are opened and after some careful crafting, showing their department in the best light, the reply is sent.

Then it’s time for the department/work-group/partnership/inter-agency/management/office meeting. Hopefully, this should run its course without anyone making a meaningful decision. Any break from this tradition could mean it overruns and that would make everyone late for elevenses. No chance of any Jammie Dodgers being left when that happens.

With everyone suitably refreshed by eleven fifteen or so we have a small window of opportunity. Now is the time for the ne’er do wells to strike. It’s “Crime-Time”. Barring weekends, duvet days, half term, holiday season, golf days, bank holidays, team building days and office lunches we’re at full strength; with every seat and computer terminal staffed by a crime fighter.

So go ahead, make their day.

Hurry up though, it’ll be lunchtime soon.

(… to be completed…)

The Numbers Game

Ms Blears has had her abacus out.

Using a series of complex calculations she has worked out that although there are record numbers of officers in the country we’re not all on the street during the busy periods. If only she’d asked me, I could have saved her the trouble.

According to her, slightly less than ten percent of officers are on duty when the naughty people are at their worst. I can only assume that this is a national figure as I believe this to be dreadfully inaccurate as far as the Throbbing Metropolis is concerned. It’s more like five percent.

There’s a very good reason for this: The busy time isn’t between nine in the morning and five in the evening. It’s a bit later than that; at a time when most warrant card holders are tucked up in their leafy suburb homes. Having a well deserved rest after toiling all day in front of their computer screens.

Now, for those of us left this isn’t a great problem. As pleased as I normally am with the never-ending production of e-mails and policies dreamed up by my hard working colleagues cruelly confined to an office somewhere; they’re not much use in a pub fight. Although, having said that, at least I know to consider my safety before my health now. I’ve got a bit of a sniffle at the moment but, rest assured, I’ll be pushing this to the back of my mind the next time someone tries to take my head off with a bar stool. Thanks guys.

Ms Blears didn’t offer a solution to this ‘problem’. That’s okay; I’ve been considering the options on her behalf. Not that she asked me to you understand, I’m not even on the working party let alone the focus group or think-tank panel addressing the issue.

Option one would involve the nation’s saviours. They could be deployed in the hot-spots to provide that all important visible presence. Unfortunately, the whole point is that they get seen. With the busy period being when most of the people who wanted to see a ‘police officer’ are indoors watching reality TV; how would they know there’s a visible presence outside? We’d be accused of fibbing. Besides, the hours in question are generally dark; and they’re not allowed out after sunset.

Option two seems the obvious answer. We change the hours of work for the bulk of our workforce. Clearly this would look good on paper and get us a lot of brownie points. I don’t expect we’ll be getting to your disturbance in a private premises call any quicker though. Unfortunately, there are a few downsides to this option:-