Last night I got a text from a friend who lives around the cricket ground informing me that there were idiots making a racket playing football against the clubhouse wall and metal window shutters, which were far from cheap.
Bad enough most times of the day but past eleven o’clock clearly not what anyone wants even if it suggested the XBox had not yet taken over the hearts and minds of today’s youth and Roy Hodgson should not give up hope just yet.
They clearly had the brains of your average footballer at least.
As I was just about to jump in my bed, for a moment I thought about ignoring the text on the blatant lie that I had switched my phone off; confronting delinquents close to midnight in my silky robe and faux fur slippers was less than appealing.
And then it got to me that turning a blind eye to morons gets us nowhere so I jumped in the car and set off up the road without much of a clear plan but forgetting my cricket bat and missing another chance to knock it in should the chance arise.
Almost within reach of the ground I spotted a rare sight, that of a policeman. Actually he was one of those pretend ones – a bit like the useless supply teachers they used to send to school to sub for someone bunking off – but I stopped, explained the situation and asked him to hop in and help.
The poor bloke looked terrified – Jack Regan he most certainly was not – how on earth was he out on the streets alone at this time of night, I thought. Someone should tell his mum, the lad was clearly lost impersonating a policeman.
“Have you rung 101?” he asked. I was tempted to ask if that was a chat line but he told me it was the police…who surely were standing right there in front of me?
“No but why bother when I’ve got you here?” I politely (honest) replied.
“But you’re in Shipley district and I’m Idle” he said and clearly he was bone idle.
Unbelievably, it appeared that he could not cross the boundary between two bits of Bradford for fear of having to do some real crime prevention. As this was hardly tantamount to being asked to chase a drug gang across the Mexican border, my patience began to suffer.
“What does that matter?” I tried to reason as I simultaneously dialled 101 without much hope at all.
And then he shot off without a backward glance leaving me in danger of immediate arrest – were there any police around – for offering the opinion that he was somewhat less than useful via a few choice words and hand signals not from the traffic manual.
Now, if you ever seek to rely on 101 then ready yourself for disappointment. It’s a menu system similar to dialling a utility company and with about the same chances of talking to anybody that can be actually be bothered to help you.
Had they had this in olden times, by the time they had got through the options Bonnie & Clyde would have escaped. Menus should be for the local take-away not the bloody police.
After a ridiculous delay explaining my options – none of which offered Charles Bronson and his Magnum – I got through. First of all the woman asked if I was driving; top marks for observation here.
“Sir, can you pull over as I can’t talk to you in case I distract you” she said. If that was the case, I thought, how come the BBC employ Nicky Campbell? What was she going to do I wondered, send me a selfie?
“I’m distracted already having had to come out at this time of night to deal with morons!” She may have sensed my growing frustration here.
I parked up anyway and hopped through a neighbour’s garden committing yet another crime (trespass) in the process creating a crime hotspot inside ten minutes for the bureaucrats to analyse. I was hoping for the element of surprise and also that there were not forty of them.
“Sir, please don’t do anything stupid” she bleated, as if I was not past that point already wandering about on a field close to midnight in my PJs.
“Don’t worry love I’m only going to kick their arses” I offered by way of placation, looking down at my slippers and in full knowledge that I was not Bruce Lee.
She then proceeded to lecture me on threatening to kick someone’s arse (crime number four) whilst on a police telephone line. I suggested she hung up and went off and did something else which hardly seemed to enhance relations.
Perhaps that would get the police helicopter out and I would be having police cereal tomorrow morning.
As it turned out there were only two morons who were reasonably accepting of their clear lack of brain cells and conceded that I had a right to be pissed off. They grunted an apology of sorts and wandered off, knuckles scraping the ground.
My night was not yet over as I still had this irritating woman on the line lecturing me about threatening behaviour.
I suggested that we were clearly from different eras and left her to doubtless have to fill in numerous forms for Government statistics to show we are all living in a state of Utopia.
What kind of society do we have that they put pretend policemen on the streets, replace 999 with a multi-choice helpline and any attempt to protect something you value from half-wits is considered far worse than the miscreants themselves?
The BBC documentary Police Under Pressure screened only a few days previously and centred on the South Yorkshire force was depressing. Our expectations of a protective and well resourced police force are clearly fantasy based on this.
And yet if budget cuts mean that a policeman on the ground is going to be as rare as hen’s teeth just what do they spend the money on?
Successive Governments have done little to make Joe Public feel confident about policing. In addition the police service has become mired in scandal after scandal.
It was never like this back in his day.
I accept that this was hardly the crime of the century but the real issue here was the utter ineptitude of a man in uniform paid for by the public purse. And, of course, the fundamental right of people to enjoy a bit of peace an quiet.
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