Dark sense of humour. Are you still allowed to call it that?




It takes its toll being in a very specific employment that requires an impossible amount of professionalism, unobtainable levels of commitment, and inexplicable levels of expectation. In the eyes of the public, the Police are, or at least should be, infallible superhumans. Our sole purpose being to catch bad guys and keep you safe. As soon as we deviate, make an error in judgement, have a bad day, make a genuine mistake, have our buttons pushed, or dare to stop for ten minutes to have a toasted ham and cheese sandwich, we are put up there with the big three; Hitler, Hussain and Harris.

You have to be whiter than white. So much so, that I genuinely hesitated when writing the phrase “whiter than white” in case this idiom’s origin’s traced back to Rosa Parks or Slavery or the KKC (I refuse to spell ‘clan’ wrong). I could be immediately labelled as some intolerant hate junkie, and suspended. That’s not even a joke.

The slightest sniff of a Police Officer having a sense of humour, or their own opinions, or personal thoughts, or anything ‘taboo’ spoken about or text to friends, or any views that don’t reflect their employers, then they will likely be scrutinised to some degree. To qualify as a modern police officer, human characteristics are no longer required. Especially not a sense of humour. Too many variables. Modern Fuzz need only be heartless emotionless droids, programmed to enforce and obey. It’s early days in what is in effect, a really low budget totalitarian dictatorship. It’s North Korea, sponsored by Lidl.

Scapegoats are needed and fingers must be pointed. People need to be held to account. And yes I am talking from a very real personal experience. But they’re not just aiming at the handful of blatant and complete bell-ends that somehow get through training school. It’s everyone. Decent officers. The aforementioned supercops. We’re all just a number on a shoulder now, waiting to fall upon the swords that align our very crest. And every one is out to get us! The media hate us, the public hate us, the government hate us, anyone above the rank of inspector hates us. Somehow we’re the epitome of evil. It’s like being Harold Shipman cast as the leading male in Cocoon 3. Nobody seems to trusts us our appreciate what the police are (trying) to stand for. And of course, it has a knock on effect to those trying to do it.

Currently, the sole day to day objective every single police constable has, is not to get baddies and bring justice. It’s just try not to get in the shit. Do the bare minimum you can, because the more you do, the greater the chance you’ll get the blame and get a badly polished boot up the arse. Don’t use discretion, that’s a skill from a bygone era. Follow this flow chart, no matter how blatant it’s ineffectiveness. Don’t agree with this process? Don’t worry, it changes every six months. Victim doesn’t want this course of action? Sorry pal, you no longer have a say any more than I do. The only thinking on your feet done these days, is about which foot your going to put wrong. If there’s an extra “cock-up” than usual at a rape scene, then prepare to become more of a target than the actual rapist. Everyone forgets it was the rapist who did bad here, not the unfortunate untrained inexperienced unsupported PC. You may as well take the blame for the rape too. And get raped. By kids, you fucking paedo. This is now all your fault, and you’re going down for it. The actual rapist? That case got dropped ages ago, you’re the bad guy remember. Why didn’t you just follow this months version of the fucking flow chart?

Surely everyone gets those celebrity death jokes text to them? Within an hour of Michael Jackson dying I had eight! I have to immediately delete them, as I would be sacked for having them and/or not challenging the sender. The other day I had to stop myself from using my ‘Zombify’ app to make a zombie version of the late, and delightful Sir Terry Wogan. It shouldn’t need stating that I wasn’t going to send it to his widow. It was for the eyes of like minded pals only, who know its a joke and who know I mean no harm whatsoever, and who know I adore the late Tel. It was just a cheap shot at making someone laugh. I wasn’t asking for it to be shown on Points Of View. Its an insta-sack so I didn’t bother. In the end I settled with a zombie Cilla Black which didn’t even make sense.

It’s a really miserable ethos. And also just a precursor to my actual point here…. Humans NEED to fuck about. Police officers are no different, even if we are treated as such. It is human nature. There’s that phrase that’s knocked about, that the emergency services have a “famous dark sense of humour”. Not really. It’s the same sense of humour as you. Humour is subjective. And very often contextual based on who you’re with, where you are and shared experience. It’s an attitude you choose to adopt. Each persons ‘sense’ of humour is unique, organic and completely adaptable. If you don’t find something funny, that doesn’t mean that people that do find said thing funny are wrong. (Unless said thing is BBC’s Mrs Browns Boys) The ‘dark’ bit of the sense of humour is solely born out of the context. We deal with all the fucked up stuff. Dead bodies, rapes, abused kids and abhorrent human beings. Beryl at the post office deals with stamps so will not relate or understand how we can dick about whilst sat with a decomposed human to get us through said horrific situation, in the same way we will not fully appreciate the hilarity of her paper cut anecdote.

These days being in the Police Force is about as much fun as being in Auschwitz, only with no food provided and less shower facilities. Another joke I’m definitely not allowed to make. I talk like I’m some old fart here approaching retirement, but it wasn’t so long ago that PCs actually had some down time. A chance to mess about. To release all the stress and shake off the smell of that tramp you just had to strip search. Have a laugh, clear all that build up of anxiety, remind yourself why you do it and get on with it. People were of course happier and subsequently worked a great deal harder and more effectively. Unlike todays resent fueled loathing belligerent broken human caskets that drag their demoralised souls towards the derailed infinite freight train packed full of societies never-ending human bacteria.

Anyway, here’s a non-exhaustive list of the sort of ‘fun’ we used to get upto, but cannot any more. None of these hijinks by the way are mental, over the top sitcom levels of japery, they are just examples of your average day to day low level tomfoolery….

Hide and Seek: In the days when maps were books you bought in petrol stations, someone would pick a grid reference and hide. Everyone else hunts. We were all in marked cars, so this was just high visibility patrolling mixed with a bit of fun!

Corridor cricket/bowling: A game of cricket or bowling in the nick, usually bottles of water for stumps, batons for bats etc.

Band-o-Pong: A creation of my own which was basically ping pong across the office desks using your hands as bats to twat a massive ball of elastic bands at one another.  This somehow evolved into…

Face-o-splat: A number of items of increasing size weight and danger, are thrown at peoples faces. Take the hit to proceed, dodge or block and you’re out! Bonus points for not even flinching.

Endurance challenges: Using police asps or batons, start with a rhythmic tap on a colleagues body part, building up to rather brutal poundings! See who could withstand it the longest, and who had the best bruises the next day!

Radio hijinks: tricking people into saying or doing stupid things /swearing over the radios. (I once managed to cut someone off just as they sang the theme tune to the Muppets to the entire county). Replacing the phonetic alphabet with stupid words was also a giggle.

Cocking: Surely every employment has this? Doodle a penis over a document such as a statement or, more commonly a pocket notebook and inside of police hats. If you know a copper, check his hat. I bet you what’s left of my pension there’s a cock doodled in there somewhere.

Stealth Cock: As above but the idea is they don’t see these ones, they’re less obvious, hidden among letters or miniscule enough to sneak their way to a court trial.

Speed cock: As above, but in full view of the recipient and to be drawn before the recipient can react in time to stop it.
(My personal favourite sabotage of someone’s PNB however was the little gem at the top of this blog which I christened ‘wanksy’)

Sleeper gags: A joke that could be found days/months/years after it was set. Could be a stealth Cock hidden on the last sheet of paper in the printer, several thousands hole punch chads hidden in the ceiling tiles, or a huge phallus drawn in yellow chalk under the admin carpet. There’s still an image of ‘keyboard cat’ hidden behind every radiator on the first floor.

Naked Gun Parking: Me and a mate would regularly intentionally park marked vehicles like Leslie Nielson in said film, crashing into bins or just being all haphazard, mounting the kerb etc. You have to hum the theme tune as you park. Double kudos when there are onlookers.

Lock-ins: When out in groups of four in a single car, there was a ban on opening windows whenever anyone dropped their guts. All must suffer!

Secret word: Whilst dealing with an incident, each of you would give each other a secret word that you have to fit into normal conversation without anyone realising. Like, aubergine or chumbawumba or whatever. Also works with themes / film titles etc.

Accents: A risky game, where at an incident, one of you would be nominated an accent you had to try and keep up, no matter how poor it was. The bemusement it caused was priceless.

Newspaper doodles: When on a constant supervision and there’s nothing to do, after you’ve read a paper eight times, it’s inevitable that you are going to start doodling over it. And inevitable that said doodles will be cocks, balls, tits and filth! We’ll some genius had the idea of collecting each image over a number of years all into a glorious scrap book. The resulting 20 page spread of doodles debauchery was the single most impressive community project I have ever seen in my life.

Forfeits: This was a specific era in my career, when we had a great shift. If anyone wanted to go home early, and there was nothing going on and enough of us in, then to earn the privilege they would have to do a forfeit first for everyone else’s amusement. One involved letting everyone doodle on my arms and face with black permanent marker. Quite tricky walking home having a Hitler ‘tache, cocks covering my arms and ‘rapist’ written on my forehead. Another favourite, involved me having to stand beside a vast puddle as a colleague floored the marked car past me, showering me with said puddle as the others filmed it. Then walking home, soaked, cold, a bit humiliated, but looking forward to being in bed an hour before everyone else.

Utterly juvenile, all of it, but it kept spirits up, and kept us working. It was like, we got away with that, so we’ll work or balls off now. “You scratch our backs” sort of mentality. Like we owed the job after a brief respite from it all. No one knew, no one got hurt. Good times, and kept us enthusiastic and charged for the grueling night shifts. I get that you don’t go to work to have fun, but having fun at work, keeps you coming to work. And not having a mental breakdown and going off with stress for six months, something frighteningly commonplace these days.

There’s zero chance for the majority of this now. Primarily as there is no downtime to do it anymore. GPS constantly tracks you, body worn video constantly films you. As do the criminals, goading you to react as they shove the iphones they can somehow afford on benefits in your face. You still get the odd giggle, but it has to be in secret. you can’t trust anyone anymore as so called colleagues actually get praised and promoted for dobbing in people that let their hair down for two minutes. But it still goes on. There’s an elite generation of cops still hanging in there, dossing about whenever they can. Not to be unprofessional. Not to bring shame on the police or upset anyone. We do it because we are human beings, and fucking about is natures anti-depressant.

“been wankin’ too much have ya?”


We all know the world is ever flooding with an abundance of nob ends. You know, those compete shits who ruin shopping by barging through crowds with their zombie like ignorance. Cretins who walk along with their “yoof” music blaring out of their phones rather than using headphones. Spleens who wait indefinitely to cross a busy road without pressing the button on the crossing, then step out anyway, doing that half hearted attempt at running then immediately slowing to a walk. And middle aged ditsy female drivers in too much of a rush to consider looking both ways before pulling out at a mini roundabout and colliding into ME!!

Yes, I have been involved in an RTA. And been right royally fucked up as a result! Knocked off my push bike, leading to a double fracture to my left wrist, (I’m left handed) that has since been operated on and some metal fused to my skeleton for the rest of my days like a budget Robocop. It’s put me right out of wack for a couple of months,  and my wife’s patience ran out the second she realised I could do nowt to help with the baby.

Before I go on, I need to address the sentence “knocked off my push bike”. I agree with your gut reaction to reading that. Yes, cyclists generally deserve to be run over, the spandex wearing arse jiggling self important tossers. Yes I was cycling, but I do not consider myself a cyclist. I cycle to work out of necessity not choice. We simply can’t afford a second vehicle in our household. I am the unwilling cyclist. Refusing to wave back as i pass other self-righteous cyclers who think we have some sort of unwritten bond. Even after three years of reluctantly and resentfully hauling myself to and from work, I still refuse to accept that I’m one of them. I don’t have a road bike, which apparently I should. I wear no spandex, just old combats and a jumper from Next. I have no fancy kit at all, and my bike constantly looks like the one Neil recovers from his bath in The Young Ones. I have no pride in it, nor concerns that I look more like I stole it than own it. My knowledge of bikes peaks at talk of spokey-dokeys. Yes I have lights a helmet and a fluorescent coat, I’m belligerent but not stupid. But my helmet is cheap and plain, as opposed to the smooth pointy ones worn by ‘proper’ cyclists to shave one tenth of a second off the time they should be spending with their kids.

My bike was the cheapest one in the shop, and even then I was resentful. I was such a noob in the cycle society, the bloke in the shop couldn’t comprehend my (admittedly over the top) outrage that more expensive bikes come without pedals! WITHOUT PEDALS!! How exactly is that a bike??!! Surely its an inanimate object without its method of propulsion??? Cars come with engines don’t they? That’s like buying dinner at a restaurant but plates aren’t included in the price. Or going for a Thai massage and not getting wanked off at the end.

Anyways, my accident. I was in autopilot mode as I approached the mini roundabout a hundred yards from my home, just as I had done most days for the past three years. I was looking forward to seeing my two spawn after another demoralising day of policing the human bacteria that mess things up for nice folk. When before I know it, I’m being accelerated at by a white BMW which pulverizes me. Not at any great speed, but enough to hurtle me to the tarmac in a heap, and obliterate the bone in my wrist. The driver comes out, already crying, and says to me “sorry I just didn’t see you!” To which I uncharacteristically reply from the floor “maybe you should have been fucking looking then!”. Probably why she then chose not to help me up and instead stands in the middle of the road sobbing all pathetically like a human cliché.

As people generally say, initially I didn’t feel any pain but knew something was up with my wrist by its new ‘z’ shaped design. My hand was now about an inch above where my wrist ended, but inexplicably still fully functioning, with all five of my digits still able to nimbly dance around my palm like the girls at that Thai massage place I mentioned above. Something I foolishly continued to show witnesses, police and paramedics, who all gave me advice I really should know, namely; “stop moving it you idiot!”

Whilst scattered in the road like a salt trucks load, (good rap lyrics that) I got a rare reminder that some genuinely nice, kind human beings can still survive in this crud world, as they helped me to my feet and off the tarmac, took me into their homes and called emergency services for me and babysat what remained of my bike. I also had a rather unusual reunion with one such Samaritan who I actually went to college with. Thank you Louise. A friendly face was just what I needed. Although your brutal honesty could have waited til the shock wore off when you reassuringly quipped “your wrist is completely fucked”

Then I had to make an awkward call to my anxiety addicted wife, as I try to down play the fact that I may never be able to finger her again, and try to make her think my Zoro wrist is just a bit of a bruise. Then a dizzy spell in an ambulance, a chat with a police officer who was clearly upset I wasn’t someone he knew so he could tell colleagues about my accident, and i was off to A & E, a place I visit in a working capacity on a weekly basis.

Following an Ill thought out text to my parents, (a picture of my arm strapped in a massive great yellow box so I looked like I had been fused with Bumblebee, along with the word “whoops!”) I manage to get them both unnecessarily worried and my dear old Pops comes to keep me company so I’m not sat up there on my own.

X-ray, plaster cast, then on your bike. Pun intended. Then a fortnight working out how to do things with your remaining weaker hand. Like taking a piss. Getting dressed. Making a drink. Washing. Trying to play with your children…. And putting up with every single person you meet making an utterly predictable joke about waking! “hurt yourself waking too much did you?” “does it feel like someone else doing it now?” Uugh. Honestly, if you weren’t my friends and family I would seagull you in the fucking eyes! It wasn’t all bad though. Being mowed down and potentially crippled for life got me my first hand job off the wife in about three years! Man I love me a pity wank! Maybe if I lost an arm she’d suck me off?

Two weeks pass and I’m told an operation will be needed as its not healing right. So operation time!! One that required general anesthetic, which controversially, I was quite looking forward to. Having a nine month old daughter who screams her gorgeous little fucking head off fifteen times a night, I was relishing the opportunity for some unbroken sleep! So, bone re-pummeled, wrist torn open, and eight screws and a metal plate later, I’m a proper shit wolverine! If the police force undertook a bionic man trial to change the face of policing for the better, I would be the outcome.

My appendage did not appreciate this relentless trauma, and post surgery my left hand swelled up to ridiculous proportions. It was like having one of them big foam hands the audience have in gladiators. I was Edward Penishands. (google it). It made my ‘normal’ hand look like a Beadle-hand in comparison! (google it) My hand throbbed and pulsed with every beat of my heart and constantly felt like I’d just come into the warm after building a snowman for the last half hour without gloves. The slightest tap or wrong movement caused such a wash of pain it frequently put me to the floor. It was a tough couple of weeks. And worse still, the waking jokes went on. Every. Single. Person.

It’s only really stopped giving me jip now, two months later. The mobility is still just marginally better than Steven Hawkins, but its getting there. All in all, it’s been an eventful couple of months. Obviously I couldn’t be at work, so most of it was spent at home with my family. From that perspective, it’s been amazing! When else in your life are you going get six weeks of doing nothing but spend time with your young’ens? And over Christmas too! From that angle, I will cherish this ‘bad’ event in my existence. It’s still playing on my mind that I’ve only got about 50% movement in it, but its not affected my main worry throughout; my ability to wind down and forget I exist on the ‘ol Xbox. I was still able to complete Rise of the Tomb Raider, and get a good portion of the way through Arkham Knight, so all in all I am more relieved than when I was at that Thai massage parlour.

I’m left with a tidy little scar which resembles a teenagers snatch. And a doctors guarantee that this wrist will suffer with arthritis in the future. Clearly I’m going to be going through the insurance and at least get a holiday out of it all. But its not been life changing. I’ve not started embracing every moment as if it was my last. If anything I’m even more laid back. Shit happens, as they say. Could have been worse. At least I’m not dead.

And yes, for a couple of days after the operation, it did feel like someone else was doing it!

For Flux Sake

Bach to the Future
Bach to the Future

At the time of commencing this blog entry, it is October 21st, 2015. A date geeks around the world know as Back To The Future day, the destination in time that Marty and Doc fling themselves to in said sequel.

Time Travel itself is an absurdly profound concept nestling in Sci-Fi territory which, going by my own simpleton logic of “no time traveller has ever come back to say hi”, is not possible. There’s also that lovely paradox about going back in time and killing you’re granny, I can fathom that one. But start discussing “folding time” and “worm holes” and it all starts getting a bit Brian Cox. As much as I’d love to understand it all, my beta-max of a brain just can’t keep up. Watching the Boffs and Proffs talk about quantum mechanics and theories of relativity just makes me feel like I’ve completely neglected the raw power of my brain and instead chosen to fill it with benign shit like film quotes, Level maps, and the words to The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air.

So my inferior noggin can just about compute the basic concept and some straight forward theories. For example, some egg heads believe time itself does travel at different speeds in relation to the ever expanding galaxy. So if we’re talking just about accelerating time, in principle time travel is possible…. Possible, until now!
I can PROVE time manipulation is achievable! I’ve cracked it. Not wanting to blow my own trumpet, but I have found a completely fool-proof way of manipulating / accelerating time, accelerating it massively and uncontrollably. And millions of us are doing it already.

Have a kid.

Now, if you haven’t had children, this next paragraph is going to sound like another dreary rant from a tired parent bleating on about the hardships of raising children……… Because It is. If you haven’t had kids, then go and have a sleep you lucky bastard! Go and sleep like a baby, a term only people that have never had a baby use.

The sole piece of advice I give every expectant parent i meet is always the same; “prepare for you’re life to hit fast forward”.
No one ever shared this vital nugget with me, and for me it was by far the biggest shock of the whole human producing spunk fuelled gene-splice. And my god, I can’t express enough how this is not an exaggeration. Whereas before I was casually playing through my time on earth like a lazy Sunday, suddenly I’m hurtling through existence, plummeting ever closer to Game Over by the second. Days just evaporate into nothing. Hours spin uncontrollably round like a teenage tongues first french kiss. I still accidentally write the year as “14” when I write the the date. It’s nearly 2016 for fuck sake!
Another crude example, bearing in mind when I started this it was 21st October, look at the date I actually finished and uploaded it!!! Absurd! And I have nothing to show for that time. I can’t remember anything I’ve done of any significance. And that’s despite being awake for a far greater percentage than what I was sans spawn.

I’m sure this will plateau as the kids get older, fuck me I hope it does. I miss the lazy days where my agenda consisted of; sleep, toast, sit in pants watching telly, play xbox, wank, repeat. Days I used to write off as wasting my life, I now yearn for! I had a day to myself about five months ago. An entire ten hours to myself. No work, no wife, no kids, no chores. I did absolutely shit-all other than what it says above. And it was fucking amazing. Honestly felt like i had just been on a two week holiday. I was rejuvenated.

Any who, that’s enough about kids, I’m sure they will crop up frequently enough, whereas time travel is a bit more niche… So; pop quiz hot shot! Ask yourself, if you could travel back to any moment in time, what would it be? Y’know, like, go see the dinosaurs, try to stop Hitler, see how the Virgin Mary really got pregnant, that sort of thing. Have a think.

And then the second one for you, if you could go back in time to any day, just the day, from you’re own life, to live it again without changing it, what day would you choose?
Now initially, I’m sure a lot of people would say stuff like the birth of their child. But think about it guys… Really think about what that whole day(s) entailed! Besides that one moment, you’ve forgotten haven’t you. Try and remember what that day was like, as in the boredom, the tiredness, the hunger, the resentment, the guilt, the impatience! Likewise for mums but replace all that with flange-pummeling agony. No thanks.
Some other cliché moments I’ve contemplated include losing my virginity. Not exactly sexually confident, this was nothing more than a terrifying ordeal of nerves, sweat, premac and apologies. Why would I want to live that again? How about my first wank. A moment as bewildering as it was exciting. A bit of a late bloomer in this department, my first wank was actually an accident! It was after a sex education class at school and the boys were all given Jonnies to take home to practice putting them on. Which I struggled with, only to unexpectedly fill the thing up! A sense of exhilaration washed over me like, well, like the spunk subsequently being flung over my socks! (socks are always the closest thing to hand!) In an instant I was tarnished and spent the next few months producing more gloop than Ghostbusters 2. One moment I would relish reliving, I was about eight I think. In junior school in a packed assembly. And my internal workings orchestrated the most bass filled floor trembling cacophony of a fart I have ever produced, which led to an ever growing chain reaction of kids losing their shit, leading to a good 30% of the entire school in uncontrollable giggles for the remainder of the assembly. Still makes me chuckle thinking about it.

Back to the first one, any point in time? It’s an overwhelming prospect to pick any point in the history of the universe, but I don’t think I would fit in in any period other than my collective presents. I’m too accustomed to creature comforts, to endless entertainment. I’ve never had to experience war. Or any significant disaster or unnatural loss. When I actually think about it, my lifes alright. So you can just pop me straight back up my mums fallopian tubes and I’ll do it all again thank you very much

Bah weep granah weep nini bong?

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“bah weep granah weep ninny bong”

A universal greeting to express peace to potentially hostile races when language barriers exist.

It gets Kup and HotRod out of a number of scrapes during the course of Transformers the 1986 animated movie, and even wins them some unlikely allies. And is also a crude, tenuous, self indulgent starting point for a rather dire week at work.

In “The Police” (I will refrain from divulging which force for as long as I can) like most counties, we are going through a pretty major reform thanks to the helms that run this Kingdom. Whilst this is my third full blown reform in thirteen years, this one is different. It’s the first to involve massive staff layoffs. And this time round the change is all going under the unimaginative banner of “Transform” (I warned you it was a tenuous link)

My own role is in jeapordy, (although mercifully at this stage, not my actual job) and today we got our first glimpse of what the future may look like. Beginning with 250 odd people facing redundancy. You got the touch Cameron. You got the power.

This Police Force is of course an organisation. Which makes me laugh everytime I hear it as its my favourite oxymoron. They can’t organise a single thing without fucking it up immeasurably. Be it trivial things like daily deployments, or hugely important things like letting your employees know they will soon be joining the villains they once policed in the queue at the job centre.

Come announcement day we had six separate but synchronised meetings across the county, each with different staff from different areas and roles, including civilian staff and PCSOs, all expecting the worst. The briefing I was present for was chaired by some Super Nintendo I’ve never heard of or met before, who kicks the whole thing off by guffawing and sniggering at his own self importance, arrogance pouring out of his pivoting Pez dispenser head, inexplicably failing to sense the tone in the sea of frustrated faces awaiting their fates. Then for the first thirty minutes, spent fluffing the importance of “transform”; he manages to talk about nothing in particular, using that alien language i despise the most. The language of the politician. Talking in questions and riddles, avoiding making any points, using corporate keywords like “evolving” and “footprint” and the latest one, “embed”. Absolutely everyone bar Pez-Head was angrily looking round at each other thinking the same as me. What’s he talking about? He really should have just done a HotRod and opened with “bah weep granah weep nini bong”. I don’t think it would have won him allies like in Transformers, but it would have stopped people thinking he was a cunt.

When he finally gets to the only bit anyone’s interested in; namely, Who’s getting moved, who’s getting sacked, he flits through it in under a minute. Followed by, “I didn’t write this, it’s just a proposal, I now don’t know anything more than you. Any questions?”. Isn’t that another Oxymoron? Emphasis firmly on the latter two syllables.

Whilst the PCSOs are clearly todays targets, I’m still unclear on what’s going to happen to me. It seems that from the 27 PC’s under the umbrella of neighbourhood policing, 11 shall stand, 16 shall fall. And as much as I fear being plunged back into the unending chaos of shift, it’s nothing compared to the way the PCSOs are being treated. Their future seems to involve a one in four chance of keeping a job that’s changing to something they didn’t sign up to do, anywhere in Essex, wether they want it or not. There’s no voluntary redundancy, and the redundancy itself is the governments bare minimum. It’s a massive “fuck off” from their employer. They should consider doing what the sharkticons did and just turn on their masters, overthrowing them and starting again. Which would be hilarious because as much as I feel for them and how they’re being treated, a clear majority of PCSOs are mongs.

Most of them knew this was inevitable. They always knew they were budget coppers. Police officers in disguise. But no one expected their bosses to be so cold blooded about making ‘part of the policing family’ redundant. They (the bosses) could blame the government and everyone would understand. But they don’t. Instead, “It’s all part of transform”. “We have to evolve blah blah blah dehumanizing corporate bullshit”.

And I hear that this is only phase one of transform. More shit has already been shoveled and we’re yet to taste it. There’s more money to save somehow, no matter how ruthless it seems. But don’t worry, you’re police force that is there to keep you safe will be just fine I’m sure. Despite rocketing sickness levels, lowest morale conceivable, reduced numbers, increased demand, inexcusably poor computer systems holding it all together, and a culture of Conform or get sacked, we are merely transforming to evolve into the police form the public deserves. What’s happening to British policing, often cited as “the greatest police force in the world?” The main thing being transformed here are the people that do the job. And all you are going to be left with as this austerity train rolls uncontrollably on, is a demoralised, pessimistic, short fused, unhappy, exhausted faceless government body of stat-manipulation droids unable to cope with societies perpetual decline. And they’re ready to roll out….

In The Beginning….

Well. This is all a bit daunting isn’t it? Having just read an article on Richard Herrings’ website, (a comedian I’m still not entirely sure I like) I thought I would take him up on his recommendation to start my own online blog. He claims it’s healthy if you’re a bit creative and a good way to stockpile stories, anecdotes and material. But I’m not a comedian, why exactly am I planning on splurging my thought’s and views onto the infinite face of the internet? And just where exactly does one start with their maiden blog?? I’m pretty sure the three opening words from the Holy Bible are setting my sights a bit high….

Well its too late now, I’ve taken the plunge. I’ve invested. This has already cost me fifteen quid to set up. £15!! That’s six Lego Minifigures!! (this is covert exposition to inform you I’m a father) I’m committed now, and as I type these very words I am breaking my blog-hymen. Plus its good to try new things. I’m 37 and I’ve only just started to eat eggs. They’re actually bloody nice despite my lifelong mental block that they are chicken periods.

I’ll be honest, I’ve never even read a blog before but I’m guessing its a bit like a diary. Only saying I keep a diary would make me sound gay, and despite “blog” sounding like an amalgamation of racial slurs, it’s still preferable to diary.

I’m not even sure who this is for. Is it for me, or is it for other peoples amusement. And what other people exactly are going to read a complete strangers blog focusing on nothing in particular? (if you are a compete stranger and reading this, firstly, thanks! And secondly, go and talk to your actual friends you fucking maniac!!)
I’m guessing it’s for me. Not in a stuck up my own arse arty-farty way, more as a way to document the shit that goes on in my life that I normally forget by the following morning. Don’t worry, I’m not going to be banging on about my fifth wedding anniversary, (anecdotally that is indeed today) because lets be honest, only the wife cares about that. I’ll be focusing my energy on farcical, benign and pointless shit. Stuff that makes me laugh. Stuff that winds me up. I’ll certainly aim to make it amusing. And quite a specific humour as well considering the current target audience is me. I’ll no doubt get angry and have a few little vent offs. Maybe I’ll try my hand at some other stuff that takes my fancy. Amusing poem maybe? Upload some drawings or doodles i do when i should be working? Who knows! I’ll do what I do in my current employment as a Police Officer (that’s more covert and hackneyed exposition there) and wing it. Each day and each incident is different, so I’ve learnt to make it up as I go along from one job to the next. Think of it like ITV’s This Morning with Phil and Holly. Playfully bouncing from topic to topic just like the aforementioned hosts humongous personalty (aaaah you thought I was going to say tits didn’t you?)

Should I use peoples real names? Or should I change them to protect both myself and them. And if I do change them, should I give them all amusing pseudonyms?
Should I tell my wife Gertrude? (see what I did there?) she’s generally not a fan of my ‘creative’ side. She’s already banned me from uploading two videos onto YouTube, refuses to read my screenplays as one of them mentions a girl I used to fancy, and she seems to live in a perpetual state of constant embarrassment of me. Plus if I do tell her its bound to impact on how blunt and honest I’ll be as she’s likely to feature heavily. And not in a Fifty Shades Of Gray type way, we’ve been together ten years, we’re talking more along the lines of Stephen Kings Misery.

One thing that’s bound to crop up often is my Fuck-wittery. I’m not sure if that’s a real word, but it perfectly describes my ability to Cock up, screw up, fall over, say the wrong thing or make a general shambles of something important on a frighteningly regular basis. To give a crude example, here’s one of my favourite examples of my fuck-wittery;
I’m 17. I’m in cash-in-hand employment, and I need to bolster my income so i can turbocharge more £1 bottles of Smirnoff Ice with my mates, and pay my mum housekeeping so she can keep washing all of the socks she finds under my mattress. Solution? Illegally sign on to get an extra £78 a fortnight! Genius. So I have my interview, and the chap at the job centre asks me to come in on Tuesday to sort out my first jobseekers allowance. My response; “I can’t do Tuesday, I’m at work”

I digress. This opening gambit is all over the show. It’ll hopefully evolve into something and get a bit more structured, depending on how long it holds my interest. Whatever the fuck this is, I think its basically a memo for my future self to one day look back on and have a read, remember some stuff, and decide if I used to be a compete cock or not. So hello future me. Present me is about to blindly buckle up for a trip to the unknown. I may make a few wrong turns on the way, may even crash into a ditch after the first mile! I could pick up a hitchhiker, or kill a badger. Wherever the journey takes us, there are going to be some really shit analogies along the way…