A crime suspect is chased through Wallasey by the police. What happened next…? And do we have our priorities right?
Bobby47 says:
July 8, 2018 at 9:47 am
The Police Service throughout Britain has become a haven for skivers. Worse, it’s lead by incompetent bungling idiots who’ve never walked in the shoes of those on the front line and are so detached from reality they’ve no real understanding that people, normal salt of the earth people want to support them but cannot any longer see the point in bothering to understand why they can deploy dozens of officers to chase a young kid but can’t be arsed to attend a burglary.
The answer of course to halt their slide toward even faster distant policing is to be bloody awkward and not comply with their telephone recording of the incident or crime you wish to report to them.
To fuck it all up, you simply phone them, tell them who you are, tell them what you are reporting, give them your name, address and phone number and tell them that you’ll provide all the other stuff for their computer generated incident when an officer can be arsed to pop round.
Believe me, this does fuck it all up because while you’ve been wailing and moaning telling them that some twat has tippy toed into your house and stolen your bestest sunday Tea Service, they’ve begun a record and those ‘fields’ have to be completed before they can close it up and then tell you to detect it yourself.and piss off. It works because I’ve done it.
Me best has been when I reported me bloody shed being burgled. They wouldn’t attend. Nobody available. I lied and told then there were two fella’s in me shed. Still wouldn’t attend. Nobody available.
So, I,put the phone down, gave it a couple of minutes, phoned the Police back and told them, ‘I’m the fella who’s just phoned you about me shed’. They said, ‘we can’t attend were to busy’. I said, ‘I understand. Don’t worry yourselves. I’ve sorted it out. I’ve just shot them’ and then I put the phone down.
Within a few minutes me house was surrounded by them. Uniform, dog handlers, the sound of a helicopter and shouts of ‘come outside straight away’. After searching me shed for two shot bodies they quickly realised that I was a twat. After advising me about wasting their time and lying to them they reluctantly agreed that they’d also lied by telling me they were to busy and nobody was available to sort me shed out.
Problem is, the Police nowadays are only interested in the interesting stuff and creating their own street theatre. The reality is crime, the sort of crime most of us encounter isn’t very interesting. It’s boring as fuck and they don’t want to bother with it. And it’s this reason that this young child was chased around the Town probably for an aggravated offence of scrumping.
A crime suspect is chased through Wallasey by the police. What happened next…? And do we have our priorities right?
Bobby47 says:
July 9, 2018 at 2:17 pm
All I’m saying is the Police have lost their way. Instead of worrying themselves about me and the lads falling out of an ale house after an afternoon session and lovingly calling a lady, ‘love’, ‘darling’, ‘chuck’ or ‘duck’ or whistling our approval at the magnificence of them being bloody female, they’re set up and designed to stop me and the lads attacking them with a butter knife or worse stubbing me bloody cigarette on the pavement and saying something that implies to them that we’re in need of a detention under the provisions of the bloody Mental Health Act. They seem to think that for every moment they’re on duty there are tens of thousands of us out there desperately intent on causing them harm. They won’t talk to you anymore!
The consequence to this mindset is that there barely able to get out of their cars and walk about because of the huge weight that’s dangling from their utility belt or their stab proof shell. They can’t walk upright anymore because of the weight. It can’t be unlike being required to lug about to giant sacks of spuds you’ve just harvested from your local allotment.
They’ve got their radio, their first aid kit, the bundles of tickets that can be issued whenever and wherever we’ve carried out some sin, the bloody long armed baton, the side arm baton, the gas canister, the dreadful taser designed to make you ride the lightening bolt as fifty thousand volts thrust their way through your ravaged limp body and into the good earth after they’ve decided that you are an awkward twat and you might be capable of displaying defiance and shouting ‘fuck off. I’ve had enough’. And it that’s not enough, after you’ve been beaten with an array of batons, gassed, electrocuted and handcuffed, in case you spit or wriggle about in the back of the van, they wrap you up in a ‘wrap blanket’, pop an anti phlegm mask on your confused cranium and remove you from society because you are a twat who simply wanted to chat, have a giggle and make your way home to face the horrors of being married to a woman who, when she glares at you and threatens you with her frying pan, you want to crawl into a corner, get into the foetal position and pray for an early death.
And the new generation of recruits all seem much the same. They all want to be stars in their very own movie of life in the eye of a blue light chase that’ll give them the chance to shine and display an ability to use the kit that’s completely responsible for their lower back disc pain and the debilitating sciatica that can only be erased from their minds when they’re given the opportunity to beat you senseless or better still, gas and subject you to electrocution. Talk to people, it’s easy. It’s simple and it’s perfectly natural!
Nowadays, once or twice a year they’ll pop on some pink lipstick, shake hands with a homeless street beggar before burning his cardboard box into ashes, wear some high heels, dance to an LBGT anthem and then revert back to their nature and character, a collection of odd individuals who were once bullied at school.
Give me a thief taker. Give me a tall intimidating bastard blessed with simple common sense who lives in my community, cares about my community and ain’t interested in subjecting me to a society riddled with hurdles and pitfalls designed to buggar up all our young people who’ll be very fortunate to reach middle age and not have their DNA and fingerprints stored on a database at New Scotland Yard.
Return to Bomb Alley 1982 – The Falklands Deception, by Paul Cardin
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