Another Quiet Night

Not much happened last night.

Just the stabbing of a newspaper delivery man, the drug assisted rape of a woman who'd been out with her friends and an aggravated burglary where somebody got pepper sprayed and beaten with a metal bar in their own home.

All of these were pretty big jobs, but the one I wanted to post about was the first job of the night. Nothing special, just a routine anti-social behaviour job. Kiddies messing about, making noise and setting fire to trees. Fortunately, unsuccessfully.

I caught up to a group of four of them and, though they were initially pretty gobby, three of them took on board the threat of being dragged home to mum for a proper telling off.

One of them though, a fifteen year old who'd been on the cheap lager, refused to listen to what he was being told. He was argumentative, loud, obnoxious and very nearly ended up being tied to one of the trees they'd tried to set alight whilst I showed him how to do the job properly.

I took him home and his mum, an enormous, scary looking woman with prerequisite stained dressing gown, blaring TV and hoard of screaming children answered the door. It was, by now, midnight.

She started screaming at the little oik before I'd even got into the lounge (I use the word "lounge" only because the TV in here was louder than the others. To be honest I'm guessing. It could've been the kitchen for all I know. Everything was buried under dirty washing).

I tried explaining why I was here and she'd interrupt me to point out that her son was a "little shit". Now, it's rude to disagree with a lady, so I nodded and said, "well yes, I suppose he is. But we should probably try and calm down a bit." Little Oik's reaction was to tell his mum to "f*ck off, you pr*ck!"

It was about this time that I lost patience, and anyway I was starting to get dizzy with the smell. So I locked him up for being Drunk & Disorderly (using those Section 69 powers again) and took him down to custody.

I've done some extensive research into the subject of the people who inhabit our sink estates and I've found that Underclass + Alcohol - Intelligence = Arguements, Fighting and Grief for me. I know they can't help it though. Trying to drag themselves up into some sort of decency would require an awful lot of effort and would eat right into their TV and Pub time. So I don't blame them for their failings.

On a side issue, this lad re-defined the word "thick". His grasp of the English language spoke volumes of his parents interest in his schooling and underlined why I could never be a teacher.

Whilst I was booking him in, he kept jibbering on about how he hadn't started any fires, oblivious to the fact that that's not why he was there. "I didn't burn nuffin!" he'd cry indignantly.

I tried to do my bit to introduce him to the Queen's English by pointing out that this was, in fact, a double negative which meant that he'd just admitted to burning something.

He looked at me with a glazed expression. "Yer what? I didn't burn nuffin!"

The Inspector was there doing custody reviews. He valiantly tried too. "What you should say is "I didn't burn anything" It's correct English"

"Yer what? This is my English! And I didn't burn nuffin!"

I gave up and went for a coffee. Apparently he's told his mum he's going to be an engineer and build things when he leave school. Out of lego probably.